


The Man in the High Tower

by nonphenomenaut



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 16th century historical fantasy AU, Alchemy, Angst, Attempted Rape, Bearded John, Blood and Gore, Descriptions of war, Emotional Abuse, General suffering, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, Long-Term Imprisonment, M/M, Magic, Possessive John, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Assault, Violence, allusions to witchcraft, barbaric medical practices, captor in love with prisoner, descriptions of animal deaths, descriptions of plague, descriptions of surgery without anesthetic, descriptions of torture, disturbing behavior, medieval alternative universe, non-consensual sexual repression, previous suicide attempts discussed, questionable morals, these were not nice times to live in, use of a cock cage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5952718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonphenomenaut/pseuds/nonphenomenaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the highest tower of Castle Appledore, the mercurial Prince Sherlock is forced to live a life of solitude among the clouds. Kept prisoner by the villainous High Steward Charles (whose lecherous eye is fixed upon the young Prince for marriage), it is not until a controversial new Captain is made companion to the young Prince do all three men come to learn that John may either be the key to Sherlock's freedom. </p><p>Or the sealer of his tragic fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> //
> 
> cue author hand wringing :
> 
> so this originally started out as an AU based on The Hunchback of Notre Dame then promptly morphed into this crazy giant forbidden medieval gay love story that has barely anything to do with the original idea anymore. so hopefully if the tags didn't scare you off, you'll give it a try. i researched all this stuff because i'm in love with this era. i tried to stay (mostly) accurate to how things were and what they were like in the 15th-16th centuries, but to fit some things i had to smudge a bit (like titles : Lord = married to King) but only the good bits.
> 
> p.s. btw. being gay is the law of the land in here. enjoy. :}
> 
> //
> 
> follow me on [tumblr](http://nonphenomenaut.tumblr.com/) if you like.
> 
> follow my [pinterest](https://www.pinterest.com/nonphenomenaut/the-man-in-the-high-tower/) board to see what images have been inspiring the story.
> 
> or listen to the playlist-in-progress that puts me in the writing mood on spotify : The Man in the High Tower
> 
> thanks so much!!
> 
> //
> 
> FIRST CHAPTER HAS SEXUAL ASSAULT IN IT. PLEASE READ RESPONSIBLY!!
> 
> //


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER (an) ONE

The little brown thrush came awake quickly. Untucking its beak from its shoulder and stretching up on thin legs, spreading its wings to cast off the sleep from its feathers that had accumulated in the night. Taking a cursory look around.

The forest was still dark and quiet.

The thrush hopped out onto the limb of its tree and called out to its neighbors. Receiving little response. For the morning was far too early. 

A few other industrious birds were picking the ground for snails and worms, tiny curls of insects that had been drawn out by the dew, but otherwise steadfastly ignored the thrush. Content to make the most of their own business.

This was a magic hour; the delicate time between when the nocturnal predators had returned to their homes for sleep and the diurnal predators had yet to awaken.

Advantageously, this was precisely the time the little brown thrush had a place to be. 

Like a shot, it took off! Threading through the tight gnarl of branches with keen precision. Piercing its way through the thick blanket of fog like a needle through wool. 

It broke out onto the edge of the Forest, before banking up sharp and climbing the sudden stone face of the cliff that rose a hundred feet upwards. Up to where the natural rock sloped back into a man-made batter. Startlingly gray against the rich black of the earth. Hewn from foreign stone. 

The steep embankment ran up into a taller vertical wall, plum-bob straight and built as though it intended to block out the sky.

It was here that the thrush took momentary rest upon a merlon, a large rectangle of stone that made up one of the crenellations on the outer curtain of the castle. A place for archers to hide while they reloaded. Perfectly placed above the dead-ground. 

The thick-walled battlement the bird sat upon served to defend the castle should it fall under attack. However unlikely such an occurrence would be; given the unique and impregnable location of the castle here at the absolute edge of the high cliff and crushed between two mighty rivers that roared along each side.

Their shared tenacities had been carving deep chasms in the high coteau for centuries. Working every moment they flowed to thrust Castle Appledore more sharply atop the curtain of land between them. Like a crown on the head of a snake.

From its resting place, the bird could not see the rivers the castle shouldered; it could only see the breaks of their crashing waterfalls as they poured from the cliff side before it, like tears down cragged cheeks to land upon the bailey below. 

It could feel the vibration of their violent spills as they went crashing down. Down down down they thundered. Back down the hundred feet below into pools that smashed and crushed and bore into the earth like Titans' fists. Before regathering themselves after having spent their ire and resuming their wandering courses away. Snaking southward through the sleepy valley beneath and out beyond the castle's reach. 

Wedged between these two lower rivers, still hiding beneath the fog, were the thatched roofs of Baker Town. Where no chimney smoked too boisterously. And no shutter was left open.

A once thriving and industrious town; it had since become an occupied ghost town. And all within the last four years.

Those who had been healthy and able enough, had fled as soon as they could. Taking up residence in other less martyred places far away from the raking claws of the Kingdom. In their leaving, they took with them not only their families but also rumors of what the town had become. Blackening the name of Castle Appledore to those who would listen and cursing the reigning Holmes dynasty until it became that no one new would venture here. Leaving those that they had left behind, those too rooted, too poor, too scared or sick, to remain shut up in their houses. Trapped like cornered rats within their rented walls. 

The roads of Baker Town remained mostly empty during the day. The dirt barely disturbed as horses, carts, or even patrolling soldiers rarely moved over them anymore. The townsfolk, when driven out of their homes by lack of food or work or other necessity, moved on quick and silent feet. Often under the cover of darkness and avoided the roads altogether.

They had all learned to be well afraid of the wrath that had mysteriously and suddenly possessed the castle. When four years previous suddenly any and all of their transgressions, however minuscule, came to be punished with the utmost severity. Sent down by the King's sealed decree with no court willing to hear them. 

Crime and punishment suddenly became the new laws of the land. 

But the most unnerving of these circumstances were that the misdeeds that should not have been seen, could not have been seen by the eyes in the castle but were, were punished to the point of brutality. Their assumed secrecy only further damning their fate.

Nervous people began to speak of spies as they crouched over their tallow candles in the dark and ate their pottage. Serfs far out in the fields, breaking their backs, talked of lies and deceit and wagging tongues. Old maids with herb-stained fingers spoke of witchcraft. 

Whatever the cause, one thing was always agreed upon, that Appledore had suddenly begun to earn its fearsome sigil; the creature purported to be able to kill with a single look: the basilisk. 

It was a sigil that had writhed bright on a backdrop of black trimmed in gold for four hundred years. With its cock's head crowned in a blood-red comb. Both wings spread like a flush of daggers. It stood on a lizard's hind legs, which were stretched wide and tipped in fierce claws. The creature finally culminating in a snake's tail that looped in malicious coils clear across the castle standards. 

A formidable sight and seer indeed.

Having had enough of a break, the thrush pushed off and upwards, flapping its wings again and again, having to work harder against the air as it climbed higher and higher, flying as if to pull the waking dawn into the sky by its speckled breast alone.

It stopped for another rest on the top of the castle keep after another hundred feet up, where the heart of Appledore used to reside and tarried only briefly, before heading for its final destination. As if unwilling to stay near such a hollow place.

It climbed to where the air grew wild. Where the atmosphere wasn't so ordered. Where the clouds threatened to break upon your face like waves and the world appeared far more vast and miniature below. 

Where the blue turns of the lower rivers cradling the sides of Baker Town became mere ribbons in the bodice of a larger valley. 

Where to the West of the west lower river resided the town church, St. Bartholomew, with its property packed full of too many gravestones like a mouth full of too many teeth. 

And to the East of the east lower river grew unchecked the Royal Forest of Baskerville, forbidden to all but those with special dispensation. Rumored to be full of ghosts and magic and all sorts of mysterious things. 

And to the South was the land that stretched beyond Baker Town's borders; the quilted patchwork of fields where the gentry toiled. Gold and sage and lilac in the dawn. A blanket for the world that disappeared away into the horizon. Sleeping still. Weaving the dreams of other lands. And other stories.

Finally approaching the top of the tallest tower, the thrush spread its wings, adjusted for the whipping wind, and lit lightly down upon the lentil of a very high window sill. The highest there was for miles around. The highest, possibly, in the known world.

It turned one eye at the misshapen reflection its body made in the uneven glass diamonds of the window, before hopping up onto the cradle of the lead bars where one of the small panes had been removed. Looking in.

It saw no inner movement.

An errant sweep of wind caught the small bird's tail and ruffled its covert feathers into tiny spikes. Nearly knocking it from its perch before it hopped down onto the cold stone floor inside to be unmolested. 

It paused, tilting its head this way and that, trying to find the figure in the dark. Knowing better than to call out. It knew this figure almost as intimately as the figure knew it. And every morning without fail, Spring through Autumn, they would meet.

It carefully surveyed the interior of the circular solar with its empty walls and hollow girth. Its black eyes looking over the only piece of furniture in the room: the imposing oak hulk of the intricately carved four-poster bed set back against the far curve. With its green velvet curtains pulled back to expose its neatly tucked linen sheets, its perfectly folded embroidered silk coverlet, and the perfectly plumped down-filled pillows. Clearly having remained unslept in.

A ring of dust had been left to accumulate around the borders of the floor for several years now. Not having been allowed to be cleared away by the servants under strict instruction. It had grown so thick over time, that it was reminiscent of a seance circle, though it lacked the benefit of protection against evil. 

The fire that had once roared in the large hearth opposite the bed from last night had burnt itself down to ash and embers a long time previous, leaving only the tiniest glitterings of orange to struggle up and murmur warmth. 

The makeshift wardrobe to the left of the bed, sectioned off by heavily painted triptych screen that depicted the The Garden of Earthly Delights did little - despite its strange beauty - to fill the room with life. Aesthetically, this room was as cold as the stones that ensconced it and forever (it seemed) would it remain so. 

The thrush regarded all this with casual disinterest. Having seen this scene remain unchanged as it was most mornings and moved on through the solar to the adjacent room. Where it sensed the occupant it sought resided. 

It stopped at the cracked open doorway, taking up a small stone that had been set down for it and clacked it once, twice, against the floor.

There was no response.

Again, as it had been trained, it knocked twice in quick succession and finally a sharp intake of breath was its reply.

The lick of dark in the dim of the window turned his head, acknowledging the small creature with newly opened eyes that seemed to shine with no light, the color of the moon. And with a shifting only seen between the black shapes of the ephemera around him, a single candle was lit with the flick of firesteel. 

The tiny flame was too dim to cast much distinction upon the young man's rawboned features. Only bright enough now to limn the long thin steeples of his fingers as they were pressed up to his lips. His hands resembling the stilted arches of a roofless church as he observed his feathered visitor and came back to himself.

"Is it that late already?" He rasped, his deep voice grating from long disuse.

The bird tittered imploring at his question, unmoved by his lack of awareness. It was not here to keep the time of day for him.

"Yes yes. A moment." He rose from his chair, his long joints stiff from extended stillness and made his way across the honeycomb flooring on bare feet to the far wall. He had yet to gain the weight back that he has lost. His long linen shirt billowing around his thin chest, letting only the barest edge of his detailed purple braies peek out at the top of his knees where they were tied. They were longer than the usual small clothes favored by the townsfolk below; but being self-designed, they gave him the modicum of decency he sought to counteract to the shame between his legs.

He removed a silver cover from a large platter and worked some bits of hardened crust from a bread loaf that had come with his untouched meal from yesterday. 

He squatted low, holding a piece out on the tips of his long fingers, trying to get it to come closer. This had been an ongoing experiment.

The bird hopped forward.

Before hopping back.

Only approaching to snatch up the bread when it was finally tossed a little ways from his hand.

Another piece was tossed at a shorter distance next. The bird waiting, turning its head at him carefully before hopping forward again to grab it. Not moving back this time.

He threw another. Closer. And the bird came closer.

He threw another.

And another.

And soon the thrush was the closest it had ever been. Tilting its large black eye at him.

The sixth piece he let drop straight below his hand and held his breath as the bird hesitated one brief moment before he felt soft feathers kiss against his fingertips as it stooped to snatch it up. 

It was the first touch he had received in years that he had truly sought for.

It felt like a benediction.  
And a small victory in the same.

One positive outcome in his years of hard work.

The bird had learned to trust him enough to come within touching distance now; but it was still clearly far too skittish to feed from his hand. More experiments would have to be carried out. But it appeared that perhaps by Summer's end, hand feeding could be achieved. 

His ultimate goal was that by the end of next Autumn, the bird could be trained to fetch small articles and bring them back to him. Perhaps, in time, even have the ability to collect soil samples with the aid of a small glass vial attached to its leg. And if that experiment proved successful, he could figure out how to entreat a larger bird to visit him, a crow perhaps, which would be able to fetch him larger and heavier things.

The possibilities stirred something deep within him as his earliest experiments were continuing to prove fruitful. It gave him a dangerous new shred of hope to cling to.

For the last four years of his incarceration to this tower, this thrush had seen fit to come to him, seeking food. Its visits were never long. Only seeming to come to herald the morning, make an attempt at progress, earn its meal for the trouble, then slip away to leave him alone in his misery. But still it was welcome all the same.

He did not remember how it had begun exactly, what day he looked up from his emptiness and despair and saw this little creature there upon his sill. He only knew that this was the single secret he possessed that had remained truly his. And he was careful to do all he could to keep it that way.

The ghost of a smile faded from his lips, the corners tightening as he watched the bird's head swivel this way and that then titter in warning before hopping away. 

His ears picked up on the same cacophony of noise a moment later, which was right on time in approaching his chamber door.

"You'd best be going then." He said softly, rising to his full height. Ignoring the bird's startled flutter back as if a tree had just sprouted from the stone. "Unless you're keen on becoming a part of today's stew. Though perhaps your bones might serve better to pick teeth clean, looking at you. You're hardly a mouthful."

Ignorant, the bird only stared.

The man sighed at his want to hold conversation with this little thing and herded the thrush back into the solar by merely walking towards it. Noticing how it was careful to keep a generous distance between itself and him, despite the breakthrough they'd made today. Perhaps it blamed him for this interruption.

The little thrush jumped back upon the lentil as he shut the door to the adjacent room, watching him as he brought the lit candle and speared it down onto the candelabra near his bed and came to stand before the door to be ready when it swung wide.

Dawn had finally climbed high enough to seep in through the window now. Making the solar wall flush with a rose tint. But the bird's strange silhouette still marring the flooding light made the man turn back to the window in confusion. Not understanding why the thrush was tarrying so.

There was the sound of a key fitting into an outer lock and the ragged scrape of a bolt sliding back from the catch. 

The young man felt a lick of panic lash through him at his secret being discovered. "You must go!" He whispered fiercely. "Leave! Darken my window no more."

He shooed at the feathered vagrant with a desperate flap of his hand, finally compelling the little thing to light back up upon the V of the missing pane and look out into the sky. Tittering at him as if in complaint and farewell. 

Just as the heavy door began to revolve on its hinges, it took flight. And Prince Sherlock Holmes felt that familiar knife of envy as he did every time that bird stepped off and simply flew away.

He watched as the little creature caught itself in the air so easily, righted its wobble in the tenacious cross wind, flared its wings wide to swoop back towards the ground and was immediately snatched from the sky by a kestrel twice its size. 

Sherlock's breath punched from his lungs. His blood running cold as the hawk screeched victoriously, circled round, and landed back upon the window ledge with its catch.

Its sharp talons took no pause in spearing the tiny thrush in place like an iron maiden. Gathering up its wild feet so that they would not wound, before using its hooked beak to tear the speckled feathers from the creature's small breast. Clearing a spot to feed.

The smaller bird thrashed and screamed as much as it could. The ragged sounds seeping in through the missing diamond to assail him. The snap and pop of small bones crunching like rushes as the kestrel bore its way inside.

The door behind Sherlock was open now and a thin older man in lush dark velvet came almost slithering into the room. Another predator advancing on its cornered prey.

The doublet the man wore was pale yellow, embroidered with an intermittent pattern of dark gray flowers, while the pumpkin-shaped breeches surrounding his slim hips were of the opposite contrast; rich charcoal fabric decorated with delicate yellow thread of the same design. The long black robe about his shoulders whispered as it kissed the floor, lined with fur, coming clear down to ankles that were clad in perfect white chausses embellished with golden thread. 

The large gray rosettes on his shoes shuddered as he moved, his heels clicking. His broadly cuffed hands floated delicately in front of him, fingers twitching out as though drawn magnetically to the young man inside. 

A nesting of long black feathers (his constant accessory) had been fashioned into a collar about his neck, jutting straight out from the cup of his doublet, turning his wraithlike features more avian than man. As though he were a six foot vulture. 

And given his position in the castle now for the last four years, it was a rather fair description. He seemed to be content in waiting for Appledore to die in its languish, so that he may feed from its offering.

The older man had plucked his fawny hairline clear back to the top of his head and powdered his whole face to a spectral white with lead ash. Achieving the high aristocratic brow and pale visage so sought after by royalty. But no matter how much he looked the part; he would always ever be a fraud. 

Sherlock felt the hatred curl low in his belly at the smear of this reflection in the window. At the man who kept him prisoner here. But steadfastly kept his eyes upon the glass. Finding the morbid display outside to be far less foul to look upon.

Sherlock imagined he could feel every muscle as it was shredded from the bird's bones in his own body. Pulled apart in strings of red and pink.

The thrush's struggles were beginning to diminish now as more of its small body was excised. Its beak open and panting and soundless. Its eyes wet as the rising sun burnt behind it.

And still Sherlock found himself wishing that it was him out upon the lentil being feasted upon. That their lives were switched. 

For it would be better than this.

High Steward Charles Magnussen came up behind him quietly, appearing over his shoulder just as he felt gentle fingers tease a couple of curls on his head. 

His touch was infinitely delicate, as though Sherlock might shatter under his hands. Fully aware that his prisoner was just beginning to recover from having tried. "It is a pleasure to see you upright once more, my lambkin." Came a soft and terrible voice very close to Sherlock's ear. Two hands wrung in golden rings slid possessively around his ribs. "I cannot tell you how worried I was to think that I should lose you."

Feathers tickled Sherlock's neck as Charles nuzzled in, careful not to smear his white makeup.

Splayed fingers swept gently across the swells of his pectorals. Hands claiming sensation that was not his to claim. Stuttering over Sherlock's nipples through the thin fabric of his shirt and making Sherlock flinch, drawing a tiny breath in surprise. Charles had always been delighted by his body's sensitivity.

Sherlock pulled his back into a straighter stance. Fighting against the want to drop onto the floor and curl into the foetal position as the brushing hands were accompanied with a light touch of lips against the nape of his neck.

His vulnerable body was flickering at the touches like a candle flame in a draft, dancing under the attention at its own peril. Sherlock suppressed a shudder as his nipples were teased into tight buds without his want.

He could feel the exaggerated bulge of Charles' overly stuffed codpiece pressing into the back of his thigh and knew of the firm flesh that was beginning to grow inside. He could always tell by the way Charles' breathing pattern changed. Became more throaty.

Nausea bloomed sickly in his empty belly.

Taking the allowances he felt he deserved, Charles sowed a line of kisses down to Sherlock's shoulder, now trying to actively catch his eye in the reflection of the window as he pecked a trail. But Sherlock refused to watch this disgusting display happen to his person, if he could do nothing to stop from feeling it. He kept his eyes looking through.

The thrush outside made one more violent thrash for freedom. Not aware of its own demise.

Undeterred by Sherlock's lack of cooperation, Charles continued to kiss all the way down his elbow and was coming back up his forearm, raising Sherlock's limp hand to smear his thin lips gratuitously across the back. As if it would do anything to ingratiate him. He turned it over and then proceeded to lick across his palm in the most lascivious of manners.

"And what, may I ask, is your answer for me today?" He purred as he laved. The same question he had asked every day. For the last four years.

He managed to utter this just as the kestrel began unspooling the thrush's intestines.

Sherlock felt one of his fingers dip into the soft wetness of Charles' mouth and shut his eyes. Feeling like a bag of wretched bones. Sifting through it to find what was left of his resolve.

"No."

Charles released his finger immediately, letting Sherlock's hand slide from his. It thumped deadweight against Sherlock's thigh.

Finishing with his morning ritual with a put-upon sigh, Charles's dabbed at the sides of his own lips, wiping primly at the excess saliva that had gathered at the corners of his mouth. Taking the time to feel its consistency between his forefinger and thumb as he rubbed them together. As if they revealed something to him. "Are you certain?"

Sherlock swallowed. His word a tight whisper. "Yes." 

Each day it was becoming harder and harder to deny him.

"One day, my Prince, you will say yes." Charles assured him. Absolutely convinced. As he always had been since that very first day. He grasped Sherlock's chin, turning his head to make him finally face his captor only to find his eyes still shut. "And you will be free from this place."

Sherlock swallowed down the longing for those words to be true. 

He breathed only through his nose as Charles stepped before him, stroking a finger tenderly down Sherlock's cheekbone. "Open your eyes to me." He instructed. And Sherlock did. 

Charles' face, while not ugly, was absolutely monstrous in its conviction. "You fill me with such desire. Don't you see? To see you happy is my only pursuit. You must know this." His words were sweet, if only to mask their venom. Sherlock thought briefly of tearing off that lingering finger with his teeth and Charles smirked as he saw it too. "You have a strong will. One of the many reasons why I find you so irresistible. But my patience and my persistence is stronger yet. And soon you will see that there is no denying this."

Sherlock could hear no more. "If happiness were truly your endeavor for me; you would have yourself imprisoned in the High Stock you have built upon the balustrade. Once my brother returns--"

Charles interrupted. "Oh? Have you heard from him? Has he sent you word?"

"You know you have made that impossible." Sherlock bit out from between his teeth. He had not heard from his brother directly in the four years since he had been incarcerated here. Cut off from all of the world he once knew. Only allowed out on very exceptional occasions and only to the Throne Room where he was to serve his royal duty to witness ceremonies. And always under the constant vigilance of the High Steward's armed guards.

Charles eyes glinted. "Then you have time still to make the right decision. It is fortunate for me that the war has taken him so far away and with no word as to when he might possibly return. It's quite possible he never shall. There are rumors that the War of the Reichenbach may never end. What would you say to that? Do you truly believe such an unassailable force as Moriarty's Crusade will be forever stalled by an army of your brother?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered, steeling his voice. "And as acting King of Appledore, High Steward, that should be your belief as well."

Charles shrugged minutely, amending his statement. Thinly veiled though it was. "Ah. Then we find ourselves in agreement. I find both sides to be quite . . . able." His heresy to the crown had become far more open now that the War had taken more than six years to end. His rule had the uncomfortable feeling of beginning to feel permanent.

But talk of his brother's army stirred Sherlock's blood anew.

"You forget too easily about the Battle for Umberland of the North. Where Lieutenant Moran's head was cleaved clean from his shoulders before the fighting had even begun. Moriarty's Crusade was stopped in its tracks by little more than two hundred townsfolk. Hardly unassailable." Sherlock continued, eyes narrowing. Scoffing with a certainty he was no longer sure he felt. This shard of hope had begun to lose its luster the longer he clung to it. The battle itself having happened so long ago -- nearly two years now -- he secretly feared that it had been nothing more than legend. But he clung to it all the same.

It had been an account told to him by his previous Captain of the Yeoman of the Guard, Sally Donovan, a fierce woman that had stood by him through five years of servitude when others quelled far earlier to his mercurial nature. 

She'd always had a fondness for war stories and for believing herself the heroine in them all. And she had told Sherlock this particular one to assure him that the War would soon be over, that Moriarty was as good as on the retreat, and that he would not have to wait long for her to return, as she was going to serve his brother King on the battlefield.

"You'll probably not even notice I'm gone. Knowing how you get sometimes." She had said, putting far more impassivity into her voice than he knew she actually felt. It had taken him far too long to understand that this was her saying goodbye. 

She had looked ready to take on the whole of Moriarty's Crusade herself, standing there.

The swath of hair that had usually been a dark nimbus around her face had been gathered up in small braids that hugged her skull, all of them feeding up like little black rivers into the plush mohawk crowning her head. The better to fit inside the impressive gold-edged black helm she had resting against her canted hip.

At her other hip hung her broadsword, as good as another appendage, with how well she wielded it. Across her chest, her cuirass writhed with the basalisk. All her plate armor cleaned and shined until it looked practically new. Glowing as if it were still burning from the fires it had been forged in. Much like her.

He had not wanted her to leave.  
But he had not said a word.

"Take care of yourself. Sherlock."

And two years hence, he found himself alone.

"Ah yes, how forgetful of me. A peasant uprising." Charles said with a sneer. Bringing him back. "King Mycroft's loyalties lie very deep indeed, it would seem. But surely such a story only illuminates how an act of pure chance may serve to further drag out this war into a longer engagement? All this bloodshed compounded by a slave with a lucky swing of his sword? Remind yourself that the very same could befall your brother King at any time. And then I doubt you would show such delight."

Little did Charles know that Sherlock did think about it. Always and in vivid detail. How could he not? It was the only thing that kept him from ruin. 

It was even the bane of his nightmares.

And always the same dream; of finding his brother struck dead in gold plate armor on a formless battlefield. Slain by an arrow, or an axe, or a sword. The method mattered not because the outcome was always the same:

Blood ran down King Mycroft's face while the killing weapon still stuck out from his body. The royal decree he so loathed fixed to it, flapping like a standard in the breeze. Signed and sealed in his brother's name. Slicing sharply at Sherlock's face as he bent to check his brother for signs of life, though he knew him to be dead.

A dark shape circled the sky above him as he bent, blotting out the sun as it grew larger, closer, spiraling towards the ground. Towards him. 

A vulture, too large in size, would come down to land heavily upon Mycroft's corpse. Filling the world with the scream of crumpling metal and shaking the ground beneath Sherlock's feet under its weight. 

The bird would stoop and immediately begin to feed upon his brother's corpse and as it fed it began to morph, fattening itself on the blood of the King, and soon High Steward Charles' blue eyes turned up from his meal and froze Sherlock in place with his look of absolute animal lust. 

Blood would flow freely down his sharp chin, failing to soil the clothing of feathers that still enveloped the rest of his body. And too quickly, he would be upon him! Dismissing the King's corpse entirely in favor of taking hold of Sherlock's arms. Trapping his hands at his sides as he licked into Sherlock's open mouth which had been open to cry out. 

Charles would bite harshly at his lips with a hot iron tongue. Choking him with hot gore. And then bear him down upon his back right there where they stood. Sprawling them both over Mycroft's broken corpse.

Mycroft's blood would still be warm as it pooled around Sherlock's head and shoulders and arse. Cradling his suddenly naked back in a sheet of red as Charles' weight pushed down on top of him, forcing him deeper into the soft wet earth, the soft wet body, the shredded armor opening like teeth around him and letting him sink into the ground. Into the blackness that rose like the sides of a tomb.

Charles' body would always be so heavy on top of him. So immovable. No matter how much Sherlock fought. The unreal mass of him making it impossible for Sherlock to breathe, let alone break free, only pushing him deeper into the mire.

But Sherlock's legs could spread beneath the weight and did so without his control. And Charles would press against him more tightly when they opened, squeezing the air from his lungs and fumbling for something beneath them both before opening what felt like a wound in Sherlock's lower body. And Sherlock would find finally find his voice and scream. 

With his victory, Charles' dark figure would block out the sky entirely to trap him in this grave. Until all Sherlock could see were the flat floating eyes that sought to swallow him whole and the feeling as though he was being torn apart from the bottom up.

Sherlock always awoke abruptly at this point. Gasping for breath with sweat on his brow. Every time aware that he had just barely escaped a vision of something even more monstrous about to happen to his person, but not willing to imagine what it might have been. Always waking up before so that he could never see. Vowing that he would never sleep again. Succeeding until he simply couldn't. And the cycle would start anew.

Charles was brushing his lips back and forth over the corner of Sherlock's jaw now. Gentling Sherlock back as he resurfaced from the depths of his mind. He was murmuring to him beneath his breath, pecking soft kisses as he whispered dark words. Reveling in the way Sherlock's body had broken out into goose flesh. "Death is everywhere, my lambkin. All around you. Swift and blind in its taking. And in times of war it is far less likely to promise back the ones who leave us. It will do you well to remember that. Shut up here safely in your tower where the war will never reach you. . ."

And as terrible as it was; it was a firm truth. Set down by decades of example. 

In times such as these everyone was more likely to die than to live a full life. Babies rarely lived to childhood. Children rarely lived to adolescence. And those that made it through only had to look forward to a brief adulthood that would end with dying in battle or in childbirth or of sickness, injury, accident, war or plague.

Or perhaps if they were very, very unlucky, they may die of the singular death that Sherlock had nearly succumbed to mere weeks before: a death from boredom.

Sherlock shook himself once more from the cobweb of his thoughts, pulling his chin from Charles' hand, only because Charles let him. It would not do well to dwell on these things now. "I grow weary of this conversation. Have you brought me something interesting today? It is part of the arrangement." Sherlock's eyes had reopened to a spot on the wall behind Charles' shoulder, not willing to let him see the sadness that had refilled his heart to the brim.

"Yes." Charles said, allowing the change in subject. "But it will have to come a bit later. While you may not be in communication with the King; I of course am. And today he has seen fit to send a very special gift to you. One that has had to come from very far away. It is one I am convinced will benefit the both of us." 

Sherlock's heart murmured. Wary of whether to trust Charles' words. Something that was beneficial to both of them would no doubt sour for Sherlock in time. As everything did.

"What is it?" He asked eventually, unable to keep the curiosity at bay.

Charles smirked. Pleased to have peeked his interest. "You will have to wait and see . . . but first, you must be prepared." Charles moved back to the chamber door and opened it wide, revealing two servants carrying a large half barrel bath between them. Standing in a queue behind them was a line of ten more servants, all hefting two full buckets filled with steaming water. All ten servants were panting heavily, having had to run up all 17o steps from the kitchen on the main floor to bring him water that had started its journey boiling. 

With no more instruction than a wave of Charles' hand, they efficiently began to fill the tub in absolute silence. Charles' focus remained on Sherlock. "Undress now, my Prince. The quicker you are the warmer your bath will be."

"But I just had one last month..." Sherlock protested. It was wholly absurd to be having a bath so soon after he had just had one.

"Then you shall have another. Whether you need it or not." Charles put out his hand to usher Sherlock behind the triptych screen of the wardrobe, obscuring him from the eyes of the busy servants. Before following. 

Usually this job would have been stationed by a Gentleman of the Bed Chamber. A personal groom to assist in dressing and bathing and attending the Prince to his every want and whim. But Sherlock's previous Gentleman, Victor Trevor, a man with whom Sherlock had been quite close, had been let go almost immediately after Charles had been placed into power. His position taken over by the High Steward himself.

The orbs of Charles' flat eyes glowed in the rising sun that had begun to spray its light more ardently through the solar's window. Painting the room with a massacre of dancing orange diamonds.

Sherlock stood still and allowed Charles to peel the linen shirt from his torso. Slide the braies down his thin thighs. Not looking as Charles stepped back to admire his nudity. As he did every time they did this. Surveying the slim lines of his body. The higher ratio of jutting bone to soft curves.

These things did not bother Sherlock so much anymore. Being looked upon like a meal to be consumed. It was the more illicit touches that vexed him the most but he managed. He had long since become separate from his body. His mind his only refuge.

Smirking, Charles fingered beneath his own ruff of feathers and brought up a long ribbon like the line on a bucket that dipped into a deep and terrible well. A small key surfacing from the depths of his doublet. Warmed next to his skin. 

His hands took no pause as they sank down towards their prize, the ribbon coming with it still looped about his neck as he never took it off. His hands were practically trembling with delight as they touched the cock cage cupped around Sherlock's groin.

The cage was made of two separate pieces that had been hewn from a single piece of wood. So well crafted that even the striations in the grain matched up to each other perfectly when fitted. It had been commissioned by Charles and presented to Sherlock like a gift during the very first days of his imprisonment. 

"But what is its purpose?" Sherlock had asked, eyeing the thing warily as it was offered to him on a satin pillow. He wondered at its shape and why it was so familiar. Being so naive back then.

"Why, my Prince. To keep you pure." Charles had answered. "Now lie back for me. That's a good boy."

The main piece that housed his cock was a solid cylinder with a mushroom tip that sloped down to comfortably fit him while he was in a relaxed state. A vertical slit was carved in its tip to allow him to urinate without having to take it off, but the thick, solid wood made it impossible for him to get an erection. 

The second piece, which locked with a barrel screw lock to the main piece from above, was a thin ring that encircled him beneath his testicles, lifting them away from his body in a slightly supportive way. But the cruelness of the second piece came in the long protrusion that extended out backwards from the bottom of the ring, shaped like a cat's tail. It was thin and smooth to hug his perineum before fattening out into a bulb the width of his thumb as it curled up into his hole. Its tip just barely long enough to reach past the place he was most sensitive.

The first month of learning to sit with this contraption around and inside him had been tantamount to torture.

Holding him delicately while he fit the key into the lock, Charles let his fingertips graze up the smooth wood of the protrusion to where it was swallowed up between the globes of his arse. But he did not press in any farther. He never went any farther than this.

Still, Sherlock tensed. As he did every time. 

With a click, the barrel screw lock disengaged and the long fingers tickling the fine hairs on his buttocks moved to linger at the lily-white flesh of his inner thigh. The delicate wooden piece feeling strange as it shifted a little in its new allowance. 

Charles watched Sherlock's face as he uncoupled the main piece from the second piece. Guiding his balls one at a time back through the ring to hang unimpeded in their sac. He very nearly chuckled when he felt Sherlock's hands take hold of his shoulders for balance (the only time he would ever willingly touch Charles as he always purposely positioned him where there was nothing else to grab onto) and his legs automatically spread next in anticipation for the removal. "Always so impatient." He chided and reveled in the flush of color that overtook Sherlock's cheeks.

This was a task which they performed almost every day. Charles not allowing any one else to touch his promised groomsbride so intimately. As if anyone might.

Charles reached back down to gentle the cradle of wood now hanging unanchored between Sherlock's legs, rocking it a bit as though to help. To coax it from its tight hold. "Push." He instructed and despite being well practiced in this motion, Sherlock gasped as the piece fought to slide free from his body. It was a bit difficult given how long it had been in this time. But he managed it.

Both pieces were quickly folded into a large linen cloth, held out by a servant around the screen with her head turned away. Immediately taken away to be cleaned.

It was beginning to feel more strange to have the thing out of him than in.

"Do you require use of the closed stool?" Charles asked, indicating to the box with a hole cut into its padded velvet top one of the servants had brought up. It was a portable toilet that was always brought to him for use, as he could not leave his solar to use the garderobe.

Sherlock shook his head. Trying not to fall into his despair. It was mortifying that this scene had become so normal now.

"The physician will come for your urine once you're finished." Charles said as the servants who had filled the tub filed out, having never made a sound, leaving him utterly alone with his captor. As he seemed always to be. "Until then. Your bath is ready."

And the cruel irony was that he had only himself to blame for this. 

For putting himself in this position.

For being the master of his own fate.

The War of the Reichenbach had been at its beginning when he had made his foolish error. All stemming from a campaign that was massacring its way up from the South called the Crusade of the Burning Heart. Led by the despot King James Moriarty of Westwood, the Crusade claimed to be 'cleansing' the wicked land of its wicked ways through fire and bloodshed, marching under the sigil of a heart wreathed in flame. 

King James was a man with a ravenous appetite for death and destruction and as his army carved northward, he promised to decimate any town or village he came across that would not claim loyalty to him. Slaughtering all those who refused to stand at his side. His sanguinolency seemingly unstoppable.

Until King Mycroft of Castle Appledore came to meet him.

And it was with the King's leaving that fate played its hand. 

King Mycroft's absence from Appledore was to be filled by a temporary High Steward until his return. The position requiring someone trustworthy enough to run the daily household of the castle and, naturally, he had looked upon his younger Prince brother to fill the role.

Not wanting to command a kingdom he had no interest in, however temporary (for he had no love of royalty) Sherlock had followed his heart instead of his head and refused him.

It was a scandal. But one kept secret within the castle walls thank to Mycroft's quick work.

When a new High Steward had been found and a hasty yet decadent coronation been afforded, Sherlock received word of a very peculiar decree that the new High Steward Charles Magnussen had requested before he was to take the throne.

The decree stated that should the King of Appledore die in battle; High Steward Charles was to marry Prince Sherlock within three days. No expenses spared. The only stipulation being that should Sherlock agree to the marriage while Mycroft still lived, that too would be granted.

Sherlock had been skeptical when he had learned of its signing. But when he had seen the paper with his own eyes. His family's sigil pressed deep and clear into the sealing wax by the ring on Mycroft's hand, making it indelible, he had been beside himself with shock.

He confronted Mycroft in his private bed chamber that very night. Bursting in without announcement, with Captain Sally clattering in her half armor behind him, absolutely furious. He tore back the black velvet drapes that had ensconced his brother and his brother's husband as they lay sitting in bed. Wasting no time in screaming his indignation at the both of them.

Mycroft had simply put a stilling hand on his husband's thigh as Lord Gregory had made to rise and asked Sally to leave the room. Waiting stoically for Sherlock's tirade to end. Or at least for the young man to require another breath. "Why would you do this Mycroft?!" Sherlock had raved. "What could have possibly forced you to agree to this?"

Mycroft's response, when it came, fell heavy and swift, like a sword stroke through Sherlock's torso. Crippling him at the spine.

"Forced me? It was you, stupid child! What other course of action would you have had me take Sherlock? Hm?" He had hissed, keeping his voice to a menacing whisper with the solar door still open. "You outright refused the crown in my place. In front of the Royal Court! Gregory and I leave in but a fortnight and you would do this to me? To our family?! I will not see any other sigil fly upon our standard. Any name but Holmes sit upon the throne. Do you understand? You were to be the next heir to the Kingdom of Appledore as your forebears have been for four hundred years before you and in one act of rash impudence...an act of absolute stupidity, you have ruined it! You refused to take what was rightfully yours out of some pathetic indulgence of pride! This was the only way to ensure that a Holmes would remain in power should I die...however diminished the capacity. Perhaps this will serve as an important lesson that the things that are necessary are far more important than your trivial wants. It's time to grow up Sherlock. Life is not long enough to waste on dreams."

"But Charles Magnussen--"

"Is the man best suited to act in my stead. Since you've left me no other option. I'll not have you second-guessing my decisions. . ."

Sherlock's had mind raced as his brother continued. Trying to gather up all the information he could about Charles, cursing himself for not having paid more attention to the women and men in Mycroft's Royal Court. The most he could remember was that Charles had risen through the hierarchy by blackmail and bargain. Clawing his way to the top upon the backs of others.

". . . his ambition in politics is matched by that of his family wealth and besides that he's never done too much damage to anyone important." Mycroft went on. "The promise of you as a consort was the only way he would agree on such short notice. There was nothing I could do. You've tied my hands and so I have promised him yours. He will suffice." His eyes narrowed suddenly as a thought struck. "Do as he says, Sherlock. Whatever he says. Stand against him or his wishes in any way and you shall consider yourself standing against me."

"But you can't!" Sherlock had cried desperately. Choking on his own realization of what he had done. The gravity of it all.

Mycroft had lowered his brow at this in warning. "I am still King of Appledore so long as I breathe, Prince brother. I can do anything I wish."

New panic had speared through Sherlock at the finality. Making him desperate. "No, please." He could not be Lord to a King such as Charles. He could not be Lord to any man. "I-I am sorry King Mycroft. Please. I take it back. I don't say no. I'll take the crown..." Sherlock had begun to mutter, preparing to go down upon his knees if he needed to. Breath shaking, hands trembling as he locked his fingers and beseeched him, tears filling his eyes. "Please! Please? I will take it. Let me take it."

Gregory's hand on Mycroft's shoulder had put a hairline crack in the King's impressively quiet vexation, making Mycroft see the vulnerability with which Sherlock was imploring him, instead of the red wash of his anger. 

Mycroft's shoulders had dropped the tiniest fraction at that point, but his face remained the same solemn scowl. "It is far too late to undo what has been done, brother mine. Reversing the decision now will only call into question the integrity of our name. You shall have to wait for my return. Whenever that should be." He had turned his eyes away now to the far wall, unable watch his brother tremble so. "Sally? Please escort Prince Sherlock back to his bed chamber. See that he is put to bed."

Sally had done so, heaving Sherlock's arm over her shoulder and practically carrying him back to his own solar as he shivered and pleaded against the fear of this new future. Sally had instructed Victor to give Sherlock a draught of his own sleeping aid to calm him as she passed Sherlock off. Victor, doing so, had held Sherlock in his arms and wiped back his curls and tried to reassure the young Prince that all would be well. Despite Sherlock's heavy protestation.

He fell asleep that night muttering a string of 'no. nononono'. . .

But he had done what his brother had said. He was doing it still.

Do as he says. Whatever he says. Stand against him and you will find yourself standing against me.

Sherlock felt the cold stones beneath his feet in contrast to the re-lit fire in his hearth rolling across his flesh as he was led to the tub. His skin tempering in the warm water as he dipped himself inside his bath barrel, tucking up his long limbs like a desiccated spider. Folding his arms around his shins and looking back out the window.

To where a single delicate down feather flapped in the wind. Stuck in a smatter of blood. 

Sherlock's cheek rasped smoothly against his knee as a soaked cloth was smeared across his back. Devastated to be brought so low.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER (twa) TWO

It was a fine spring day to be readying this land for sowing.

And John Watson was glad for it.

By July he would have this furlong bristling with barley for the winter crop. And for the first full year since he had worked it, a larger portion of his harvest would be his. Now that he was a freeman. No longer a serf to the Lord of the Manor. No longer a slave to be encumbered with taxes and tithes so steep they broke his soul as much as the work broke his back. He was now a master of the lands and the home he kept.

He had earned his freedom. At the near price of his life.

It was to his sister Harriet and to her wife Clara to whom he owed his life, undoubtedly. They had nursed him back to health from the precipice of oblivion. Gave all that they had and more to see to his recuperation. 

But for all their trouble they had merely brought back a lucid corpse. An empty husk of a man still troubled by the burden of his conscious of all that he had done wrong. By his loneliness. A man still choosing to be closer to death than to life. 

It was not until that fateful visit to Castle Appledore some weeks before, that he laid eyes upon the most glorious creature he had ever seen in all his twenty-seven years of life. It was the only thing in all that land that could convince him that there was hope enough to still yet to live again.

It had been a beauty that rivaled starshine. Rivaled miracles. Rivaled the fabled white deer that were said to live in the faraway Royal Forest of Baskerville. Which were reputed to glow blue on moonless nights and said only to have been witnessed by those lucky enough (or foolhearty) enough to gain trespass into the forbidden Forest to see them.

And it took no more than that; to know that he shared ground with this divinity on earth, to let him live. Even if he may never seen the beauty again. Or its equal.

He toiled gladly under his burden now.

"Step up!" He called and the two skinny oxen snorted with indignation before beginning to move. The wide handles of the walking plow jolting to life in his hands as the team lumbered forward. Hewn earth cresting in front of the plough's share before breaking apart beneath his feet.

He and the oxen had been working on their three fields all morning. The first field having already been ploughed, sown with flax, and harrowed so that come Summer the little white flowers would bloom so numerously it would look as though snow had fallen once more.

The second field had been left fallow in the hope that another summer unplanted would make it fertile again. Helped along by their paltry flock of puny sheep that'd been let out of the house this morning to roam over the earth, spreading their manure. Ones that he'd been keeping a weathered eye on and counting every so often as he laboured.

It was the third strip of land that he tended to now. And he could already foresee the crop that would sprout from his hand-cast seeds. Come July, the golden stalks of barley would have grown so tall he'd have to take a scythe to it to see the horizon again. 

Come Autumn, there would be harvesting and retting of the flax in the small stream by their house to loosen the sticky stems from one another. Then would come the drying and dressing, the scutching and hackling to remove their woody centers and separate the fine fibers from the coarse for various uses.

This work would have to be done alongside the sheafing of the barley into bundles, followed by the stacking. The stacks brought inside to be threshed to loosen the grain from the chaff and winnowed by being tossed into the air to finally separate the heavy parts from the light.

And then following this, their Winter crop of rye would have to be laid down. The earth ploughed, fertilized, sown, and harrowed only to have the cycle start anew come Spring once more.

It was hard and tedious work to be sure. But it was work that equaled reward now. So it was welcome.

Sweat trickled down his temple in anticipation.

The cow on his left lowered her head and let out a great moan, flicking her ears in displeasure as he pulled on the handles to slow her. The shadows of her ribs rippled in the light. Her hipbones cutting into the air like axe blades, swaying to and fro as she trundled forward in her yoke before reaching the edge of arable land, marked by unploughed turf. 

The cow gave another great bellow as they came to a stop and John smiled a crooked smile at her impatience. "She's around here somewhere. Just hold on." He assured her, before cupping his hands and calling out, "heya!" He pressed two fingers against his bottom lip and whistled loudly.

A plaintive cry was returned almost immediately from the second field. And popping up amongst the shifting clouds of sheep came a little red calf. Wasting no time in barreling straight towards them. Kicking and jumping awkwardly on spindly legs, it nearly fell multiple times over the roughened earth before reaching them.

"There now. You see? She's never too far off." John smiled broadly as the little calf met her mother and immediately began to feed from her swollen udder. John reached out and patted the tenacious creature on its strong neck while she ignored him. 

It was a miracle this little cow had survived this long at all. Having been calved this past winter by these same oxen pulling his plough. Very literally almost having been born right on his pillow given that the cow had gone into labor at dusk and since all the animals they owned were brought inside the house with them during the night to dissuade theft and predation, she'd birthed the little calf right there beside the bedstead.

After, they had all watched in wonder as the cow and her new calf became acquainted and marveled as the little thing grew. And to their utter astonishment, continued to grow and survive into spring. 

Usually anything born into this world was quick to die soon after. But this new life, following swiftly on the heels of John's recovery, felt like an absolution.

A hope that things would be better now. That life would not be so goddamned awful. At least so far as Harriet and Clara had been concerned. If they had only been aware of the burden John still shouldered. . .

John wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Deciding a small break for lunch was well deserved. The cool breeze felt divine across his face and he let it persuade him into stripping off his brown tunic. Leaving him in only his boots, short white braies, and the green hose that were tied to them.

The hose had been a gift from Harriet for when he'd become mobile again, sewn by her hand. 

All the time spent in his convalescence had sapped him of his muscle and fat. Already short and slight in his time of health; John had arisen like a wraith, much too thin to even hold up his old leggings.

Harriet would have laughed, had it not been so devastating.

Mopping away the clinging sweat from his belly and neck with his tunic, John set about unpacking the meal he had brought with him. A ploughman's lunch of rye loaf and sheep's milk cheese. Bread and cheese. Bread and cheese. The same he ate every day at noon. But he was glad for it. For it was far superior to his nightly supper of bland pottage.

Unstoppering his bottell, he took a generous swig of ale and wrung a hand down his full beard to clear away any lingering drops. Dark blue eyes scanning the roll of land around him with his heart still heavy but his mind hopeful.

His beard had grown out when he had become a drunk, not long after the love his life had left him. And during his convalescence after the Battle for Umberland of the North neither of the women were willing to allow a barber-surgeon to come anywhere near him (despite the fact that they were the only ones in the village that had the sharpest blades around).

So, when he recovered, he had decided to keep it (in part to hide the gaunt of his face) but also to remind himself how close he had come to losing himself to devastation before a new chapter of his life could begin. How foolishly unwilling he had been to hope for the dawn through the darkness.

There had been times, he remembered during those darkest nights, when in his suffering he had willingly welcomed death. Opened his arms for mercy to take him, only to find Harriet or Clara and their ferocious desire for him to live bringing him back from the threshold. Stealing him back, as it sometimes happened.

He felt a smile curl at his lips as he thought of them now.

The tenacious women were at the Lord of the Manor's house now. Paying to use his oven to make enough bread to last them for the rest of the month. And John thought it only fair to use his ableness now to tend to their lands. To take a massive burden from their day and give them back a fraction of what they had given him. Despite their heavy protestations.

Though, if he were to be truly honest with himsef; it was to avoid having to go to the village as well. He had, in essence, become a recluse since the last day he had gone and was mobbed by the other villagers.

There was only one visitor that was ever permitted to see John now, and that was William Murray. A slender whip of a man with a short mop of ginger hair and a smile that could slice through darkness like a sunbeam. A man with whom John had grown up and shared a history with as old as all the love stories.

William and John's family lands had been plotted side by side and once the boys were old enough to pick up stones from the paths of the ploughs, they took turns helping each other tend to their fields and daily work, for which their parents were grateful. They were stout young boys who laughed loudly and grew to love each other. Destined to marry, their parents would say.

They brought each other to their first shared pleasure when they were fourteen in the apple grove behind William's house. A dirty and fast stripping of each other's flesh that had left them both gasping and biting at each other's lips. Trying to press their luck on how quickly they could go again.

They went to the Lady of the Manor (who was in charge of thiers and all the surrounding land at that time) when they were both of age at sixteen seeking her consent to marry. But the Lady would not give her consent. Instead, she had had her eye fixed upon William to become her own son's husband. And lacking all alacrity, she had refused them.

They tried again later, this time offering their what they would have used as dowries as bribes. And again she refused them.

Ten times over the course of the next six years they took their plea for marriage to the Lady of the Manor. And each and every time she refused them.

All the while William and John continued to live in sin. Sleeping in each other's bedsteads. Taking midday meals together. Fucking whenever and wherever they could secret themselves away.

John could still recall with perfect clarity that golden feeling of sinking his hard member for the first time into that sweet pink arse. The sudden pop of opening flesh and the delicious puuuuush as he pressed into William. Those two round cheeks filling his small hands so beautifully as he slid inside with the most gentle persistance and brought his lover to the highest pleasure.

It was not until half a year before the Battle for Umberland of the North did fate began to unravel between them.

Sweating sickness, a terrible plague that announced itself in cold shivers, sweating, heart palpitations and then exhaustive collapse that generally killed those that had been afflicted, had been sweeping across the country from the West and decided (before moving on) to take the last of William's kin from him.

Unable to work his lands alone and therefor unable to pay his debts, the Lady of the Manor reclaimed William's lands and with it, William himself. John had tried to persuade William into moving in with him and his sister and her wife, but William had been afraid of what the Lady of the Manor might do now that he was singled out and sure to be accounted for, and so instead felt that it was in his best interest to marry the Lady of the Manor's son to save himself the grief.

John had confronted him in the orchard shortly after hearing of the wedding party to be held in their honor in a few short days. So beset by rage was he that all he could do was take a swing as he approached and clocked William hard in the face.

"What else am I to do John? I've nothing left! I've no one!" William had beseeched him, cupping his swelling eye. His face already a riot of desperation.

"You have me! We can figure it out!" John had bellowed, fists beating his chest. The heat of unshed tears had sucked at his eyes. Too selfish to see through his own heartache to listen to his lover's. "You and me together! We've made it this far! We can figure it out. . ."

"I already have." William's words had been soft and sobering. Unwilling to be swayed. "This is for the best, John. If you love me then you will find it in yourself to know it. I will have a partner I can take into the village now. Be seen with without recourse. I will not have to hide and lie about it. I will not have my name disgraced by my actions. Our children, when we choose to have them, will not be made out of wedlock. Do you understand John? I love you and I always will, but my decision is made. I'm to be wed this time tomorrow."

"Then there's still time. . ."

"Time for what? There is nothing left between us. I am ending it. Now. As of today it is finished. I'll not have Henry be made a cuckold by me."

John had slapped his hand over William's mouth at that moment with fire in his eyes. Pressing him back into the tree under which they had found their first climaxes. "Don't say his fucking name! Not in my presence. He does not get to have you. Not in the ways I have. You are mine. Do you hear me? Mine! He does not get to know you in those ways."

"He already has." William had whispered and John's arms had dropped from around him in stunned shock. Tears finally spilling as he took a step back. Two.

"I only came here to tell you how sor--" 

But John had turned and run. Out of the orchard and away from his ex-lover and into a despair so deep it took almost dying to see him out again.

The Battle for Umberland of the North occured six months later. 

A marauding army under the guise of a Crusade had been butchering its way northward under the sigil of a flaming heart. Despot King James Moriarty, the mastermind behind this hellish invasion, had set up his headquarters some way south in Westwood Castle after having seiged it and murdered all its resident in cold blood. From there he had sent forth his war hounds. Three Marshals serving as his bloody right hands to extend his merciless reach further North and lay claim to more lands and more soldiers.

It was Marshal Moran who had the misfortune enough to come to Umberland of the North and pose his question: would the residents of Umberland of the North yeild? Or would they die?

He had approached the village on horseback, with his army of a thousand women and men making camp in the fields. As if they intended to stay. The streets had deserted themselves at his approach. No man or woman willing to come and face him until John, having fallen heavily into drinking by that time, had stumbled out from the local pub on his way home and almost bumped right into Moran's horse.

"Hail fellow." Moran had said with a bit of a chuckle and waited for John to right himself and take in what was truly before him. John had had to blink his eyes back into focus.

Moran had not dismounted, but pulled his helm from his head, revealing a handsome face striped with ragged scars and close cropped hair the color of snow. His silver armor had glinted in the sun, polished so brightly it seemed to sing. "I wish to speak to the Lord of the Manor. Do you know where I may find him?"

John, slowed by drink and sleeplessness, had pursed his lips. Standing where he was, he was precisely at eye level to Moran's sabatons, the long pointed silver spikes that tipped his armored feet and he had taken a long time to stare at them consideringly.

He knew precisely where the Lord of the Manor was. How could he not? That man had stolen away the man he loved and John had done nothing for the past half year but to pine and drink and obsess. 

Perhaps this was just the circumstance he needed to take back what was his.

To Hell with Umberland of the North. Moran could have it and all its worthless peasants. As long as John regained his beloved in the midst of the bloodshed. . .

But what would happen to sweet William if John were to point him to the Lord's manor? William was now a consort to the Lord of the Manor. Surely such a precious creature would be snatched up by Moran's men and made an example of. John had heard quite enough about traitor's heads being put on spikes in the larger kingdoms to be wary of such pleasant outcomes. 

And John would so sooner die a thousand and one deaths before he would ever let a treacle-colored hair be touched on William's dear head.

"I am him." John said finally, pulling his shoulders up to look the part. The sway in his stance had not helped though.

Moran's face had split back into a sneer above the silver wall of the gorget that protected his throat at that. A bark of laughter spouting forth. "Is that so? A drunkard crawling out from the pub at midmorning?"

"Aye." John had ceded. He was pathetic. He knew it. He considered himself the lowliest of lifes now. But still he had his morals.

Moran's sneer had transformed into something predatory, his eyes foreseeing a battle already won. "Very well, Lord of Umberland of the North. I am Marshal Moran. I come under the blessing of King James of Westwood. You and your people will have a decision to make by this time tomorrow: side with King James and his Crusade or be slaughtered. The choice is simple."

The choice had been simple. And after alerting the other villagers to their current plight, a vote was taken and they met Marshal Moran outside the main village a day later. With little fighting skills between them and the element of surpise on their side.

John, the first to fall, had gone missing not long after the last of the blood had been shed. His body secretly taken from the physician's hospital under the cover of darkness and presumed to be one among the many corpses now lying in a deep pit outside the village. In the sterile earth that belonged to no one.

John Watson had been presumed dead.

It was not until William (a month after the Battle, after the Lady of the Manor had finally died and all the property she oversaw been inherited by her son the new Lord of the Manor to oversee) had finally drummed up the courage to pay his respects to John's surviving family only to stumble upon a heartache so piercing that he had fallen to his knees upon the doorstep.

Inside the Watson's cruck house, John Watson had lain on his belly, moaning with the abandon of one in the throes of deep fever. He was being tended to by two women who had been doing the best they could. And were, against all odds, succeeding.

Fearing discovery and repercussion, Harriet and Clara had sworn William to secrecy (knowing this to be one of his most admirable traits) and relied on him to be their eyes and ears to the village and to bring them supplies when they required them. And he was as faithful and steadfast friend as he had always been to John. Especially in John's time of need.

Slowly, the three of them nursed John back to health. And then the day came when John, still mostly bedridden and prone to long stretches of sleep, but able to sit up and take a little wine and pottage broth, received two messengers from Castle Appledore.

Their gold-edged black armor had gleamed brightly in the sun. Twin basalisks tangling wildly across their cuirasses.

Harriet and Clara had roused John from his bed to see to the men at the door, each woman taking hold of his arms to support him, assuring him that it would be well worth his trouble.

And indeed it had been.

King Mycroft was granting John knighthood for his bravery in service to the crown. And because he had not had to climb through the ranks of being a page to being a squire to become a knight and, in fact, having had absolutely no weapons training to speak of beside minor adolescent scuffles, his title was to be purely honorary. 

And though he was tempted to turn the honor down that very moment, the privileges that were to come with the title were the only things that stayed his tongue.

He would no longer be a serf. He would be a freeman with a large purse of money. Enough money to pay off the debts of Harriet and Clara and make them free as well. 

When he finally acquiesced and took the King's decree into his own shaking hand, he'd been told that in a fortnight, when his strength had better returned, he was to bring himself to Castle Appledore to attend his own knighting ceremony.

Putting the ceremony immediately from his mind, John had worked to make himself well only for the benefit of being able to walk up to the Lord of the Manor and pay Harry and Clara's debts himself. And if he collapsed on the step and died of exhaustion being carried on the way back, he cared not.

It had been a long walk up to the Lord of the Manor's front door when the day finally came, three days before his ceremony. The looming, two-story manor house with its peaked roofs and many glass windows were absolutely oppulant compared to John's own. And John was surprised to find himself glowering at William's life now. How differently the twin lives of two dirty boys playing and working and fucking in the fields had turned out.

Henry Knight, William's husband, was the one who had greeted him at the door, after having watched John's limping struggle up the path through the window. John had left Clara hovering from afar at the front of the path, watching for any sign of trouble and ready to come running if he had needed her.

"John." Henry had stated simply, opening the door before the servant could do it. His tone had been the clear statement of someone who couldn't believe he was really standing there in the flesh.

John had prepared himself so completely for this moment that when it came, so many scenarios spinning through his mind that ranged from icy stoicness to absolute outrage, that when faced with the actual reality of standing in front of the man who was married to the man he had loved most ardently for almost all his life, he didn't act at all.

"Henry." John had stated back.

Henry opened his mouth to speak, but just then, William had stepped up behind him and slid his hand into his husband's, giving it a little squeeze.

It was such a loving gesture. One that looked as though it was done by rote. By want. Their hands slipping together with two hundred days of practice and it did something warm to melt the ice from John's heart that he had not expected. 

He could not be mad if William was happy. He simply couldn't.

"You're looking well." William had said, breaking the silence. His eyes had shone with pride as he gave John a once-over, only giving him a hint of that devastating smile that had warmed John on countless occasions like the sun. 

William had seen him at almost his worst, writhing unconscious in a bed as the pain and the darkness had tried to take him. But he had also seen him at his best, and by his silent estimation, it looked to be like John was resembling more the latter. "Bit skinny, I suppose. But well. The beard suits you."

John had laughed. One single scoff and self-conscious hand stroked over his beard. "I--Thanks. I am well. Thanks in part to you." He had said, glancing at his feet. Unable to keep William's eyes for too long lest the sting behind his eyes come to real tears. 

It was clear then that Henry had known of William's participation in John's recovery and had continued to allow it, given his silence on the matter.

"Would you like to come in? We're about to have dinner." Henry had offered instead/

"No. No, but thank you. I--" John looked back to where Clara was watching him like a hawk, "best be getting back home. My endurance is not what it once was. I just came to give you this." He had then untied a small purse from his belt, hesitating only once before handing it over.

When William had held out his large hand, John had let the heavy coins drop, fearing what touching his hand may lead to. 

"What is this?"

"Payment. For Harriet and Clara. To clear all their debts forthwith."

William's lip had trembled at that, clearly a sign that John had done something sweet and unexpected and John had had to look away again to keep from collapsing inwards.

A cloud passed over the sun and everyone was looking away.

"I hear you're to be knighted." William had finally said into the silence and it had made John glance up at him, shuffling in place as his stomach swooped. It made sense that the Lord of the Manor would have received word that one of his serfs was no longer to be considered such.

"Yes. Some silly idea the King had. I don't deserve it." The shrubbery about them had turned to hazy smears in his periphery as the tears would not be held back longer and came to rim John's eyes.

"Of course you do." William had stepped forward then, his long arms encircling John and pulling him close, careful not to upset the wounds still tender on his back. Unable to maintain a distance.

"I don't." John had rasped.

"You do." William had assured him, squeezing him more tightly. Forcing the air from his lungs as John found his own hands gripping far too tightly into the back of William's tunic and forced himself to let go.

"I really don't." He had repeated, his voice as wrecked as a river bed.

"You do. You do, John Watson. You do." William had whispered back fiercely in his ear, shaking him a little, his head dipping over his shoulder. "You have done so well. You deserve to be happy."

"As happy as you?" John had said, quite without intending to. Drowning in the smell of William that he'd come so well to know.

"Yes." William had replied, squeezing one last time before stepping back and taking his husband's hand again. Confirming it. "As happy as me."

At that, their eyes had been the meeting of two storms. A long practiced skill of reading each other through silence. Conveying messages while words lay unspoken and John hoped that above all else William understood that John was no longer angry at him. That William had been forgiven for breaking his heart.

And William's look in return had spoken of a hope that John would find a way to forgive himself.

It was with a parting handshake to Henry that John taken what he thought to be his final look at William and turned around and left.

Walking back through Umberland Village, John had felt a sense of subdued pride buoy up through his sadness. A feeling too long unfelt at being able to bury make peace with the past and be able to help those who had helped him so much.

He and Harriet and Clara were free now.

From that day forward they would no longer work on the Lord's land in addition to their own. They would see only to their land, allowing them all more time to better tend their crops and to accomplish other chores. And, in addition, be allowed to keep a larger portion of their harvest and supply and money.

They would all finally be able to endure. Instead of just survive.

Suddenly, the villagers who had not recognized him at his entrance, began to slowly realize just who it was that was in their midst. So changed had he been in form and figure that it took this new self-agency, this visage of a man he had once been and someone they had once known resurfacing briefly, to recognize him now.

People had begun slowing to a stop on the street as they passed. Murmuring in shock.

"It's him!"

"Are you certain?"

"I'd never forget that face."

"I thought he was dead. He died!"

"This is impossible."

"Those eyes."

It had started as a whisper among the crowd. Mouths falling agape as the secret spread, before climbing in volume and growing more damning with each gasp as someone new recognized him and harkened others to see. Some had hid their astonishment behind surprised hands, their eyes wet and afraid as if he were a ghost risen from the ground. 

"That's John Watson!"

War hero they called him.

Savior of Umberland of the North.

And soon the cluster of people had began to encircle him, forming a crush. Wide-eyed and amazed. Some reaching out to touch him in case he may not be real. Snagging at his clothes. "No, please." He had tried, making a move towards openings that were immediately closed off by more people. Pulling himself back from the briar of their fingers. Clara had moved close until her shoulder had brushed his. "You're making a mistake."

He should have stayed quiet.

"By God's bones! He lives!! Flesh and blood alive!"

"It's a miracle!"

It was not until an older man, grizzled by war, had stepped out from the crowd and raised the stump of a cut-off finger to point at him, his mouth hanging open as though to speak that the din subsided. 

The entire left side of the man's face had been massacred by fire. The red skin (long since healed) would forever bear the pattern of rain disturbing a pond. He was familiar to John, and yet John did not know why.

With Clara at his elbow, John had finally stopped his efforts to press through and lifted his chin. Ready for anything. . .

Except for the man to have nothing at all to say and instead come shuffling towards him, reaching out with his other whole hand to take hold of John's quilted black pourpoint (the padded doublet that was meant to be worn beneath armor, but worn now to keep the chill from his stricken body) in a tight grip and fall to his knees before him with bright blue eyes shining and a broken sob falling from his cracked dry lips.

John had felt his heart speed up and the blood rush into his ears.

Time seemed to suspend itself in that moment as he had looked down at this crying man. 

This display that had disturbed him deeply. And didn't understand.

Everything felt like a dream.

John's mind had raced as he tried to recognize this man. To know why he was here and weeping at his feet. He tried to understand what was going on and why these people were regarding him this way. He was a nobody. He was nothing. He was one of them and one among them. Or he had been. He was. . .

no hero. Surely!

The King's decree would not have reached these people. Word from the Lord of the Manor would not be this swift.

This was madness!

In his panic, he had not noticed when the other villagers had begun to fall to their knees like the soldier.

Not until a woman holding a chicken in a cage with the intention to sell it at market had dropped her burden to hastily get down and kneel to him as if he were a lord was he startled from his paralysis. The poultry's angry bawk had roused him into action.

And at once he was on the move, stumbling over the clutching man, nearly falling to the ground in his haste to flee. And it was with Clara's steadying hands at his upper arm, her plaited hair nearly draped across his shoulder with how close she was, very much supporting him, that he had been able to find his way out of the village and on trembling legs that threatened to give out at any moment, had found his way home to stay.

For the next three days he had shut himself inside his house to stay, refusing to go out. Even going so far as to plug up the holes in the walls that they were obliged to call windows with mud and straw just to keep the paranoia of being seen again at bay.

He remained like that until the knighting coronation had come to pass.

The whole affair had been elegant and lavish, far more oppulant than he felt he deserved, knew he deserved. But it was there that his eyes had fallen upon a creature so breathtaking, so utterly beautiful, that it had shocked his broken heart back to life and rallied his wounded soul far better than time or medicine or any witch's potion could have.

And like being absolved, John's outlook on the putrescence that was his life had been wiped clean with one simple flash of ice-coloured eyes that had only met his briefly before sweeping away.

His spirit had rallied ferociously, and with it, his health. And now he was gaining back the strength he had lost, the endurance that had abandoned him, and the courage and ambition that had been the reason for his boar family sigil. 

There was life in his bones again. And he used himself wisely to wield it.

The little red calf had suckled herself like a glutton. Her small belly rotund now with the milk from her mother and she had wandered a little ways off to lie down and sleep it off. The sun now at its apex in the sky. 

The cow, pulling the ox down with her, had folded up her legs and lay down right there in the field, obviously deciding that her day's work was done as well.

Smirking, John finished the last of his rye bread and took a final pull from his bottell to wash it down. Then, feeling indulgent, went over to the little red calf and lay down upon her ribs. Her only disturbance being that of a fly that she shook from her ear.

And brushing a hand through her soft warm fur, he closed his eyes and fell asleep with a smile on his lips. Thinking on the beauty he had truly been blessed to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus i hope the timing all made sense in that. hit me up if you're confused. :}


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's life changes for the ...stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and for those of you interested. i haven't given up on finishing my other story Bury My Brain at Baker Street. i have the chapter about half written and am struggling a little with dialogue but am working on it as much as possible. i hope to have it up by next month. i'm very sorry about the delay. :} and as always:
> 
> //
> 
> follow me on [tumblr](http://nonphenomenaut.tumblr.com) if you like.
> 
> follow my [pinterest](https://www.pinterest.com/nonphenomenaut/the-man-in-the-high-tower/) board to see what images have been inspiring the story.
> 
> or listen to the playlist-in-progress that puts me in the writing mood on spotify : The Man in the High Tower
> 
> thanks so much!!
> 
> //

CHAPTER (þri) THREE

"Hail fellow!"

In one sharp breath John Watson was awake. Opening his eyes to a sky that was beginning to turn the livid color of pre-dusk while the little calf beneath his head bleated and squirmed in demand to be set free.

He sat up carefully and let her scamper away, feeling the new skin on his back pull warningly.

At the other side of the furlong there was a man seated upon a gray horse. He looked imposing from John's position on the ground and for a brief moment of confusion John mistook him for Marshal Moran. Having returned from the dead to exact his revenge.

But when John's vision cleared and he could take in the truth of what was before him, he was immediately convinced that this man meant him no harm. For he looked nothing like Moran. In fact, he was in every way the opposite.

He was a tallow catch of a man, with a large round head that had been plucked of all hair save the thin halo left above his ears. He wore the rough brown tabard of a clerical man and a smile that even from a distance showed the twin dimples burrowing into his rosy cheeks.

John got carefully to his feet as the monk waved and dismounted and brought the animal with him in his approach. John tracked him carefully in his periphery as he found and slipped his shirt back on, supposing it bad manners to meet a man of the Lord half naked, though the man did not seem to personally mind.

"Hail goodly brother, it is a fine day." The monk said cheerfully when he was close enough for conversation. He fumbled a bit over the roughened earth in his loose sandals and had to readjust the hinged spectacles precariously perched upon the bridge of his nose as he came to a stop, extending his hand. When he moved, the little circular pieces of glass caught in the sun and shone brightly. "I was wondering if you might help me..."

John shook the hand out of nothing more than courtesy.

"Are you lost?" John wasn't about to turn away such a man, but his hackles still did rise at the fact that an outsider was coming to visit him. He had hoped his isolation would have lasted longer than this.

The monk chuckled, "fortunately no. I'm looking for a man, John Watson? I was told he lived around these parts."

"Aye." John said reluctantly. "That's me."

The monk suddenly beamed with joy. "Ah! I am in God's favour then. I was told I would have good luck scouring the fields. By chance, I met your sister and her wife in the village. They directed me here. I was warned you were a bit reclusive for a war hero."

"It is useful if I don't want to be found." John said, closing one eye against the dying sun. By his estimation, he had slept for far longer than he had intended to, recuperation still seeming to be a heavy burden for his body and darkness came swiftly in the spring. "But I am no hero."

"Your knighthood would surely disagree with you." The monk's jolliness seemed unflappable. "But oh! where are my manners? I am brother Michael of St. Bartholomew's Church and I have been sent on a mission of great importance."

John only barely remembered the church he spoke of from his brief visit. It had been a small stone building standing beneath Castle Appledore's imposing granduer, looking about as important as a pebble does at the foot of a mountain. "I'm not interested in joining the order, if that's why you're here."

Brother Michael let out a great guffaw at that. His long-practiced hand snatching out to steady his spectacles as he chuckled. "Oh, no nonono. I have not come for that..."

"Have you come to recant my knighthood then?"

And at this, the monk placed a pudgy hand atop the wooden cross around his neck and the strap of his satchel as if holding his chest together, letting his his laughs peter out into breathy chuckles, still shaking his head. "Heavens no, dear fellow! Quite the opposite in fact. But perhaps we had better take my mission indoors, hm? I have much to explain and would be very grateful if you would join me for a fine evening meal to tide us over on our way back."

"Our way back?" John tried. But the man was already headed for the cruck house, leading his horse along and did not bother to answer.

Once inside, brother Michael began readying a fire for cooking and pulling down the Watsons' only cooking pot, spitting into it to clean away something with his sleeve.

John was discontented at how comfortable brother Michael seemed to be around his house, but after the monk bade him sit and pulled a pre-skinned, pre-jointed rabbit wrapped in a stained linen from his satchel along with a handful of potatoes for stew, he could do little but obey.

John had not had protein since his knighting ceremony and his stomach ached suddenly with anticipation.

The door had been left open to allow the light in and what was left of it was beginning to bruise into night. The monk's horse stood snuffling at the dirt by the doorway, trying in vain to find a nibble of grass.

It was a long while before either man spoke again. John contented, if a little stunned, to watch the monk work so fastidiously. He watched raptly as he pulled from his satchel and robes all manner of unusual things with which to help him make a meal and before long, the stwe was brought to a simmering boil that smelled absolutely heavenly. It was then, that the silence between them was finally broken.

"You live here with your sister, yes?" Brother Michael asked, taking a sip from the ladel and selecting another vial from his impressive collection, adding the entire contents of it to the grumbling pot, before slipping the empty vial back in. John eyed the impressive collection from where it sat next to him upon the bedstead and kept his hands graciously in his lap.

"Yes. My sister and her wife."

"No husband of your own?" Brother Michael looked up, the steam having fogged up his spectacles. But there was still a glint in his eye.

"No I--" John began, but could not finish. The hurt of it was still too fresh. A wound still lurking beneath the first cover of scab. "No."

John did not understand the smirk that hooked Brother Michael's mouth at this, but only watched as he took a sprig of something from another vial and crushed it in his fingers over the stew before throwing the stick in with it. The smell of it, sharp and deep, overtook John and his stomach growled loudly. "Forgive me for being bold, but isn't the point of being a monk to abstain from indulgences?"

"Ah. You are speaking of these I take it? Here. Have a look." Brother Michael smiled and brought over the leather roll that housed individual pockets for all of his curious vials, laying it out over John's lap for inspection. As he stood, he placed his hands on his round belly in fake contemplation and patted it kindly. "The virtues of fasting to the pleasures of eating . . . you can see which I prefer.

"These were a gift." Brother Michael went on about the roll as John pulled out a vial that had managed to catch his eye. He held it up to the light of the fire where it seemed to come alive. In it was a viscous golden liquid that was slow to move when he tipped it. It was as though someone had taken the sunshine and melted it down. When he was encouraged to unstopper it and to sniff it, it was heavy with sweetness. 

John had never smelled anything like it before. 

He had heard of alchemy, of course, the transformation of matter into other things was well known to many as a practical science, but he had been far too busy toiling in the fields to take his knowledge of it any farther than that.

"A gift?" He said, sliding the vial carefully back into its sheath lest he should disturb it in some way unknown to him.

"Indeed. From a very gifted individual." Something popped and sputtered in the pot and brother Michael went back to stirring, dipping the little finger of his other hand in and giving it another taste. "You swore your knighthood these seven and twenty days past, is that right?"

"I believe so." Time since then had become a slurry of days.

"Do you recall your vows?"

"Vaguely." John honestly didn't remember much of it. He remembered the slap and the kiss most pointedly. The ceremonial dawning of his armour. What he remembered most vividly was laying eyes upon the most beautiful creature he had ever seen and that seemed to have eclipsed all the rest, but he did not make this known.

When brother Michael seemed to want more from him, John set his mind to it and when he recalled how he had been required to kneel upon the floor in his heavy armour for so long it had made his bones ache, it helped to bring the words back to his memory: "I made a promise to be faithful and loyal to King Mycroft and to be guided by the ideals of the Sovereign Realm of Appledore...uh...to do everything in my power to contribute to its Glory, Protection, Prosperity, Support and Utility. I think, never to act contrary to its Dignity, but to conduct myself always as a true Knight of Appledore, to be a good person of Honour. There's more, much more, but I can't recall it...I apologize."

"Not to worry. That is sufficient enough." The monk said, having ladled out some of the fragrant stew and handing a wooden bowl of it over. The aroma of cooked meat hit John like a lance and he had to fight his want to shove his face into the bowl and consume it that way. He only just managed to hold himself back from it.

Brother Michael, with a bowl of his own only half full, took a seat upon the bedstead next to John (as it was the only place to sit in the one-room house), cleared some of the rushes out from beneath his feet, and grinned at the spoonfuls that were cycling themselves rather quickly towards John's mouth. The entire bowl disappeared swiftly before brother Michael, with relish, filled John's bowl a second time. He seemed contented to watch him eat for a long while, letting him fill himself full. 

"Do you hold to your oaths, John Watson?" He finally asked, once John pinched look of starvation had left John's face.

John swallowed, wiping at his beard and sucking his fingers clean, looking over. "Yes. Of course." It was one of his many fine qualities, his being loyal. 'Loyal to a fault' Harriet would say if she were here. 

"So if the Realm called upon you to serve it, you would do so?"

John took stock of what he had to offer. His fighting abilities were compromised with the state of his back. The land he worked technically belonged to Harriet and Clara now. The house he lived in was theirs as well. All he had was the strength of his muscles, the steel of his resolve, and the ceremonial armour he had buried in a trunk beneath where the sheep bedded down at night in the far corner of the room. In truth, there was very little of John to give, but he would give it if needed. "To do what, exactly?"

From the folds of his tabard, brother Michael produced a small scroll of parchment spun between two black rods. Finally unveiling the true cause for his mission. Its seal was a thick black dollop of wax that had been pressed with the insignia of the basilisk, a symbol known far and wide to belong to the Royal Holmes' Family. 

John tipped the rest of his stew into his mouth and set down his empty bowl between his boots, wiping his hands upon his linen shirt, before delicately taking the scroll and breaking the seal with a small hint of trepidation and a large sense of curiosity. 

He marveled at the heavily illuminated paper as it unfurled before him, its gilt edges of gold shining in the firelight as he spread it wide between his fingers.

He stared at it for a long while, the entire thing only about eight inches in length, and shifted his elbows upon his knees, tilting the parchment a bit to find a better light. He cleared his throat and sat up until his scars pulled. Staring a bit more.

Not wanting to embarrass him, brother Michael gently took the scroll back from his hands and read it aloud, as it was evident John could not read:

"King Mycroft of Appledore does hereby hold unto favour John Watson of Umberland of the North in his Oath of Fieldty to the Crown for service.

From this day hence he is to serve as Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard to Prince Sherlock Holmes at Castle Appledore. In any and all manners required of him until death or King's decree does release him."

The monk lowered the scroll, taking in John's knitted eyebrows and perplexed frown. "I understand that this is all a bit abrupt," brother Michael said gently, putting a hand upon John's knee for comfort, "but I am pleased to tell you that this has all been arranged. Your approval is the very last part of my mission. Your sister and her wife, when I met them, have already been informed of your leaving and have given their blessings most heartily. 

"And I am also happy to inform you that the King is allowing you to bring with you a second man, your most trusted companion, whom has already agreed to make this journey with you. So we are to leave at dawn on the morrow."

John was frozen in a state of shock, all this information leaving him spinning. He was to leave, to set out for parts unknown to serve someone he'd never met before and take someone else with him on this stranger journey. . . and it would all be set into motion at his word?

He sat for a long while, his eyes wide, his mouth agape as he tried to make sense of what was being asked of him. "I don't understand." John said finally, licking his lips. "Wo--would you read it again please?"

Brother Michael did. And when John asked again, he read it again gladly.

After a long while, John finally met eyes with him. His gaunt face pale in the firelight. "But, who'd want me for a Captain?"

//


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the distance between Sherlock and John grows smaller.

CHAPTER (four) FOWER

The sun itself had yet to bloom over the far horizon, but the sky before it was haloed with a gentle purple dawn just bright enough to light the way.

A trickle of nervous sweat beaded down the back of John's neck and disappeared into his gorget despite the cool morning as he kept a watchful eye on all the closed doors and windows as they passed out of Umberland Village.

The idea of being caught out again in this wretched place, especially now as he was dressed in his full armour and in the company of two companions as though on parade, turned his stomach into knots. 

Behind him, William Murray sat proudly upon a brown horse, dressed in a black leather jerkin, a blue long-sleeved tunic, and an impressive pair of blackwork hose and black boots.

It had been only a short stop at the Manor to collect him, merely long enough to gather up his and another horse for brother Michael before they were off again. 

To John, the entire endeavor had felt like a dream.

One where they had left Henry waving goodbye to them from his front step.

Since then, John had kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead as if the whole thing may prove to really be a mirage.

He chose instead to look down onto the bald pate of brother Michael beside him, who was leading his horse at a conservative pace next to John's. John stared at his skull as if looking into a crystal ball, trying to recall exactly how he had even made it here.

Shortly after the fourth and final reading of the scroll, Harriet and Clara had returned home with (not only with a bushel of baked bread) but also with their unbridled elation at the news of John's mission. Absolutely convinced that this could be the best thing that could ever happen to him.

"I'm not in need of any more adventures . . ." John had said fruitlessly between spoonfuls of another helping of rabbit stew. 

But his initial despondency had been met only with another round of unflappable support that finally had him resigned enough to know that there would be no getting out of this. If the King's decree itself had not been enough to convince him; then the Watson womens' combined convictions were resolute. No one could have hopes against them.

After bringing the animals indoors, all the Watsons had chosen to stay up for the entirety of the night. The only one who did manage to get any shut eye was brother Michael, who without much fuss at all took his spectacles from his face, linked his fingers across his belly, and set his chin upon his chest precisely where he sat propped against the wall and began immediately to softly snore.

Meanwhile, once the women had finished their portions of stew, Harriet and Clara had gotten to work digging up the chest they had buried all those months ago in the ground, while John hovered somewhat fretfully at their side.

He was anxious for the feelings that might be awakened once he saw his gift again. But instead was surprised to find how utterly impressive the suit of armour was once it was all laid out before him.

Unlike the black and gold of Appledore's official knights who wore simplistic (yet no less stunning) battle armour, John's armour was polished silver with only the merest touches of gold to offset them. An understated construction that made it all the more gorgeous.

At the edge of each silver plate that was designed to butt up against another plate, the metal was gilt with the barest threads of gold. An effect that made each seam, when the full carapace was worn, seem to shine with an outward radiance.

As if John's body literally glowed from beneath it. 

It had made something tight catch in his throat to know that he would be donning it once more.

John had slipped his hand across the smooth curved plate of the cuirass where the golden basilisk writhed, instinctively recalling the heavy weight of it hugging his chest. He could feel once more how the large lamellar pauldrons had pressed into his shoulders. Recalled vividly how the gold-knuckled gauntlets had clicked as they shifted around his closing fists.

And for a small moment, when he shut his eyes and really felt the metal beneath his hand, he had been transported back to the moment where he had been kneeling upon the floor in the opulently decorated Great Hall of Castle Appledore and had just rested his eyes upon the face that would haunt his days until death. . .

And now, by some twisted stroke of fate, he was to return there to live. To work as a Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard (whatever that meant) for a Holmes family member whom he'd never even heard of at King Mycroft's direct request. 

It seemed almost too impossible to be borne.

And to make the matter even more bizarre, he was to take a companion with him. To uproot his 'most trusted' acquaintance and have them tag along for what was to be a strange and mysterious journey. . .

"But I've not anyone to bring with me." He had said suddenly, coming up from his contemplation as if from a dream. The women had moved from when he had last seen them, but not far.

"It's to be William!" Clara had blurted, unable to keep the joy from her face. Looking as though she had held this secret for far longer than she had originally intended to.

She had been trying to help with the blueing of John's armour (a process used to slow the steel's rusting), but had been taken ransom by the little red calf who had sat down across her lap and had demanded to be petted. 

The calf's large black eyes had been closed in bliss. Her long limbs folded beneath her as she lay in utter contentment. "It's already been arranged." She shrugged.

"But he's married now." John had said, disbelieving. "He would never agree."

"But he has John." Harriet had said all the more ardently, looking up from where she was fastidiously slicking the armour piece by piece with ox urine and then summarily soaking it with oil, getting the dark metal to shine without light. "He's going with you. Whether you like it or not. You won't talk him out of it."

And, despite any more protestation he might have had, that had been that.

Harriet and Clara had seen them off before sunrise with tight hugs and watery eyes and promises to send word when he could. Leaving John to shift awkwardly all the while in his full set of armour. He had never quite shaken the feeling of looking like a fraud in it - but he had been assured by all parties that since he would be meeting with a King and a Prince, it would do him well to be dressed in the finest things he had.

From home, brother Michael had led John's borrowed horse on foot all the way through to Umberland Village. And when they reached the Manor, John had blown a heavy breath through his nose at the sight of William dressed and packed already upon horseback and had to fight back the burning tears that threatened his eyes.

William and Henry had kindly provided the men with another horse, so that brother Michael would not have to walk, but the monk had insisted, even going so far as to remove the simple sandals from his feet as he led his horse onward, "just until we reach the outskirts. It would do me well I think. We've a long road ahead and I would like to feel the mud beneath my feet."

And as simply as that, the party of the three were headed North to Castle Appledore.

//

The trio had ridden all day and into the night, stopping only once for a brief campfire at dusk to indulge in a meal of dried meat and bread and a shared skin of ale. 

John had looked over during a moment of contemplative chewing and had watched curiously as brother Michael unrolled the leather roll of vials from his satchel and went about scraping the dark earth out from between his toes, carefully pushing it into an empty vial. 

Once stoppered, the monk looked over and smiled at being watched, twin dimples appearing on his soft face before turning back and sliding the vial away like a secret.

It struck John anew as to what precisely it was he was getting himself into with all this. How he could not possibly fathom what it was that could be wanted of him. Of what he might be asked to do. What could possibly become of him.

After a brief rest, the men began their journey again at dawn, the route before them becoming more and more familiar to John as the daylight increased.

By mid-morning, they had reached the most reassuring landmark that they were not far away from Castle Appledore, merely a few more hours ride : the Diogenes Crossing.

'The Cross', as it had come to be called, was the center point of all the trade routes that snaked East, West, North, and South and all those in between throughout the known world. All of them came together here in a sort of eight-pointed star where trading posts for the most exotic to the most mundane goods had set up business and stayed. Over time the eclectic assortment had turned into a sort of village of its own and become permanent.

William and John slowed their horses, eager to take in all the sights and smells and general racket of what surrounded them. Everything from cart stands to fully erected buildings lined every road and pedaled their wares and services through signs and shouting.

The Cross seemed just the place to provide a wanting man anything he could ever need.

Live animals available for slaughter bellowed, bleated, and crowed furiously. Bundles of cut flowers and herbs twirled in the breeze. Pots steamed. Jars stank. Baskets overflowed. Discarded fruits of every available colour were smashed into rainbow jelly beneath their horses' hooves in the road as they moved on.

But perhaps the most stunning of all were all the oblivious people parting before and around these three strangers as if they were nothing more troublesome than rocks in a river. They simply gave no notice to two men in sharp dress and full armour being led by a monk through their world and were certainly unwilling, above all else, to stop and make conversation. 

To John it felt wonderful to be so invisible in a place like this. So much different than in Umberland of the North.

Brother Michael kept pace ahead of them with a smirk on his face, but called them back to heel when they lagged too far behind, pressing upon them that they were to be expected soon at Castle Appledore. "I'll just need to make a quick stop over here."

The monk did not dismount as he moved a little further on, but stopped his horse beside a rickety looking stand where a large-eared sow was suckling six piglets as she lay on her side in a pen. The young woman standing near it greeted brother Michael and handed off a small parcel with a fond farewell.

The exchange itself took no longer than a moment before brother Michael was kicking his horse into motion once more and leading the two other goggling men northward to their intended destination.

//

"This will be my stop then lads." Brother Michael said as they came to the final three-pronged fork in the road. He clambered down off his horse and stretched his back, handing the reigns off to William before reassuring John that he could return the gray horse he was using whenever he saw fit. She would no doubt be better stabled at the castle than she would be here and she deserved a bit of spoiling.

They had reached the point in the valley that geologically split the North from the South with an impassable cliff side and forced the branching road to go off in only three directions.

The West fork, when one crossed the West lower river, led the traveller to St. Bartholomew's Church which stood unassuming with its dark stone walls and overfull cemetery. 

And if one chose to cross over the East river upon the East fork, they would be led straight into the shadowed tangle that was the forbidden Royal Forest of Baskerville, which had overtaken the road with its wildness and shrouded it in magic and secrets. 

But Brother Michael was pointing up the central road.

"That road there will take you straight on to the castle. Can't miss it," he said, pressing a finger to his spectacles as they tried to slide down his nose. There was not a chance that any but a blind man might miss the breathtaking grandeur that was Castle Appledore crowning the top of the cliff, curtained as it was by weeping waterfalls. "William. John. I trust I will see you again."

"Yes. I do hope. It's been a pleasure." John said somewhat regretfully. He was nervous to see the jovial fellow go. But it gave him a sense of hope to know that he was not far away, should anything happen.

"There will be someone to meet you in Baker Town," brother Michael continued and for the first time since he had met him, the smile had slipped from his face for the merest moment. A cold shock gripped John's belly, like a cloud passing over the sun, but then the smile was returned and the air was warm again. "Oh and here." 

Brother Michael bent and got down upon his knee with a grunt, pulling from his robes the small parcel he had collected at the Cross. He untied the string that bound it, before unfurling his leather roll of vials and removing the one that he had filled with mud. Tying the small bottell back into the string, he handed it up to John. "Give this to Prince Sherlock if you could please John. He'll much appreciate it."

John nodded absently, tucking the small package against his side and wondering at its contents. He was overcome suddenly with a flurry of questions about just who it was he would shortly becoming Captain to. 

"Is he odd? This Prince Sherlock?" He found himself blurting, though he hadn't particularly intended to voice that question first out of them all.

That familiar broad smile once again bloomed across the monk's face and he gave a whole-hearted chuckle before patting John's his greave bemusedly before giving no answer at all. 

"Go with God, sweet John. We will meet again soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a bit hurried through the boys being absent of each other i know. but i want them to be together and i want to highlight only the important stuff. i'm trying a new writing technique where i don't blather on and on about nothing integral to the plotline. we'll see how well that works out. :} you guys and gals and nonbinarys all fucking rock!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> let this be a lesson...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out the title page back at the beginning i MADE!! AGH! i'm so proud of it!!

CHAPTER (five) FIVE

John watched as brother Michael disappeared inside the gate of St. Bartholomew's, hoping that this would not be the last time he saw the monk. With his tonsure glowing in the midday sun.

He watched until he was nothing more than a silhouette walking among the clutter of tombstones.

William came up along side John. "Shall we?"

With a shaky breath and a firm nod, the horses began to move along the central road.

John had resisted looking at his companion for as long as he possibly could, but being left alone with him now, unable to have anything else familiar to soothe him, John looked.

And was overwhelmingly grateful when William did not look back, keeping his eyes fixed upward upon Castle Appledore. He seemed content to let John look his fill.

He was still as beautiful as John remembered him, in fact, since having been married into a higher social class and now able to eat regular and substantial meals, he had grown even more handsome. The entire breadth of his bones had been laid over with enough flesh and muscle to make him look healthy. Virile. Gorgeous. 

The course ginger scraggle that had once been a mess about his face was now shaped and trimmed into a handsome beard and swept-back hairstyle that let his stunning pale features push forth. 

He was no longer the unkempt, gangly stack of limbs John remembered tucked into his arms a lifetime ago. He was a different man now.

The only thing that had remained exactly the same were his sky blue eyes, which had never lost their luster.

As they approached the entrance to Baker Town, they could see a tall thin man sat upon a white horse with a crown upon his head. Given his stature, his long robes, and the two Royal guards flanking him, it was clear that this was King Mycroft. The ruler of the land himself had chosen to greet them.

John swallowed the hard lump rising in his throat and willed the cold sweat to stay in his skin.

He suddenly, vehemently did not want this. 

The closer they drew, the more William began to draw his horses back until he was behind John, thrusting him to the forefront. 

The hair on John's arms prickled upright. If it had not been for the armour ensconcing him, John feared the clatter of heart might have been heard outside his body, or perhaps that the infernal organ may have bounced clear out of his chest completely and been trampled by his horse.

Perhaps that would be preferable. 

For it would allow him to return home and cower in his cruck house. . .

The knuckles of his gauntlet flared as his hand tightened around the parcel he was to give to Prince Sherlock. This strange and simple task that had been given to him.

He could not flee.

He must see this through.

But if he could not run and hide, then he at least had to know why he wasn't alone in this. He had to put an end to the doubt that had been swamping him since the Manor house. Doubt in himself. Doubt in his friend. Doubt so dark that it had filled his body like black water. 

"Why?" John asked suddenly, not slowing his horse, but keeping his voice low, only loud enough for William to hear. "Why have you agreed to do this with me?" 

He kept his eyes in front, as he could not look back at William and see pity, of all dreadful things, to be swimming in William's eyes. For him to be accompanying John solely because of guilt seemed anathema.

"Because you would have said no otherwise." William answered simply, "and besides that; I owe you."

John choked on a breath of disbelief. 

William had stayed with John throughout his convalescence, provided any and all of what Harriet and Clara had needed from him, and yet he still felt he owed John. "What could you owe me?"

"Like I told you before, you are still owed happiness John Watson. And I am here to see to it that you find it."

It was then that they came upon King Mycroft. 

The King offered no greeting as they brought their horses to a stop. The only thing he gave was a cursory glance at William, before letting his flat, lifeless eyes rake up and across the entire breadth of John. 

The powdered white flesh of the King's face was stretched tightly over his skull, rising like a specter above the burst of black feathers that collared his thin throat. His plucked back hair started unusually high upon the top of his head, pinned behind a line of pearls. He could have been a bestrewn corpse, had he not had those piercing cold blue eyes. 

He was dressed in a silken swath of dark gray and yellow that switched emphasis at his waist, a pair of fine white chausses, and pointed shoes that were adorned with large gray rosettes. The large black robe lined with fur that was fastened at his shoulders was long enough to cover his horse's croup.

John was unsure of whether or not he was suppose to dismount in meeting such a man of high distinction, but then John decided that since William gave no indication to do so, it would be alright if he did not as well. Instead, he simply bowed his head as deeply as his armour and his back would allow him.

When he rose, the King's eyes had finished scouring his person, but he gave no indication as to whether he had found any fault.

"Your Majesty." John greeted into the stilted silence. "I have come to serve you and his Highness, Prince Sherlock. At your behest."

Throwing his head even higher back on his neck, giving him one more frigid rasp of his eyes, the King turned his horse wordlessly and rode back into Baker Town.

As they watched the guards turn to follow, William and John shared a perplexed glance at one another before feeling that there was no other course of action they could take but to follow.

Unlike the predawn quiet of Umberland of the North, Baker Town was absolutely and eerily silent despite it being now midday. All the windows and doors were shut up tight and not even a bird dared to call from the sky.

It was quite possible to believe that they were the only people currently occupying this ghost town, if it weren't for the prickle of hidden eyes watching them that tingled the back of John's neck.

John did his best to sit up a little straighter, trying to look his part. Little good would come in the whispers of the townsfolk if they thought the King was now employing broken knights.

By the time they drew up to the base of the cliff, they had lost sight of the castle completely, so sheer was the rock face. This was as close as Baker Town came to Appledore. 

In fact, this was as close as the South could come to the North in these parts.

Some thirty feet ahead of them, a raised balcony had been built straight into the cliff side, free from any sort of purchase upon the ground and came to an even height to their horses' shoulders. The platform was hemmed in by a golden balustrade that was only accessible by the two wings of low stairs that curved in on either side. 

The twin waterfalls that plummeted down from high above fell behind these stairs, sending up great sprays of white foam from the deep pits that had been wrought into the earth a little ways below them, before wandering off to create the twin lower rivers.

But not all the water managed to escape southward and that which didn't accumulated in a pool beneath the balcony, throwing up a spectacular reflection of dancing light from below. 

The water was so crystal clear, it made John want to jump into it and drink enough to parch his dry soul.

The balcony itself was a smooth, glossy stage of mosaiced bedrock. An intricate pattern that looked like a very deliberate placement of stone and yet from their vantage remained a mere jumble of black and gray.

At the very back of this was an entrance so grand that even John, with no knowledge of architectural beauty, could appreciate its craftsmanship. An impossibly large set of wooden doors had been built right into the cliff side, sheltered by an overhang of stone that was held up by two immense stone columns.

From a strategic standpoint; it was genius. 

Any attempt to gain access to the castle from the South by an invading army would be immediately thwarted if Appledore chose to bring down these columns. And with an entrance so small as to only allow six people abreast (or three upon horseback) to enter at one time, the rest of the waiting army could only hope not to be picked off as Appledore's archers rained down arrows and molten metal from the dead ground above.

This doorway was the only way to reach the North and rarely opened its doors except to those of the most import. The only other choice was to go several hundred miles out of the way to where the cliffs no longer stood sentinel over the land and should any such attacker choose these alternative routes, they could be seen and dealt with by the castle's far reaching eyes long before they ever posed a threat.

Given the castle's inauspicious nature already, it seemed almost theatrical that at the forefront of the balcony a large wooden pillory had been erected. The three large holes cut into its face seemed to yawn portentously for a transgressor's hands and neck.

Little did the quaint men from Umberland of the North know that they would not have wait long to see it in use.

A high piercing horn sounded from far above them and John and William watched in amazement as the speculatively empty houses of Baker Town all became suddenly occupied. 

Doorways suddenly disgorged a mass of skinny, ragged people. Some of them shielding their eyes from the sun as if they had not been used to the brightness of day for a very long while. 

They gathered in eerie silence before the balcony like clambering rats. Pressing in close. Women, children, and men alike. All of them shuffling into adequate positions as a tired old man pulling a low cart came up from the back. Inside the cart were rows of large baskets and from his high vantage point, John could both smell and see the rotting stink and cruel items they held inside.

The townsfolk chose their weapons at their leisure, each of them reaching in a hand to pull out whatever they thought most appropriate. The kinder ones among them plucked out a handful of rotting fruit or vegetables. Others chose mud or day-hard bread. 

But the most vicious among them chose a handful of excrement or a hefty rock as their projectiles. 

And while they did all this, absolutely no one spoke a word. 

Until the utter silence was shattered by a wailing moan.

From the back of the crowd, the people began to move, cleaving apart like a tree before the blade of an axe as two soldiers clad in black and gold armour drug a struggling, shrieking man clear up onto the balcony. 

His shrill cries and pleas for mercy during his long journey seemed to darken the very air around them as he passed.

John's horse shuffled uncomfortably in place, snorting, feeling John's uneasiness flow from him in waves. He pulled the reigns taut and patted her neck, in an effort to both quiet himself and her.

The prisoner's face was sunken and deathly pale. The rags that stood in place of clothes were hanging from his gangly body. 

The poor creature was obviously beyond terrified. 

Tear stains bled through the dirt on his cheeks and he fought tooth and nail clear up until the thick wooden slats of the stocks snapped over his thin wrists and neck and were locked into place. 

A few frantic pulls against his new bonds made the man learn that he'd been effectively immobilized and he finally slumped. Defeated.

When the soldiers moved away, he wept anew.

It was only after all this that the King finally dismounted. With his long robe trailing behind him, he seemed to float softly up the steps and took up a position to the side of the desolate man. 

The King's presence beside him was evidently so terrifying that the man in the stocks immediately cowered and fell silent with his tears. But he was still trembling hard enough for John to see it.

A pall spread over the congregation as the King unfurled a scroll between his spidery hands and read it aloud. His soft voice never rose above the level of intimate conversation, but because of the complete silence, he was clearly heard by all.

"By edict and mandate of I, High Steward Charles Magnussen, and by the permission given to me by Castle Appledore, we do uphold today the accusations and punishment of the crimes committed by one: Phillip, son of Ander, against the Crown.

"As punishment for your perversity in participating in unnatural relations with a member of the Royal guard and for your continued perjury while in custody, you are to endure to your person a fair and just punishment as declared by the people."

The man whom John had formerly thought of as the King paused here and behind the veil of the parchment he held aloft, met and held John's gaze for the first time since he'd met him with a cold, calculating stare. A small smirk making his mouth slither upwards.

John could feel in his bones that the High Steward's next words were directed only to him, though he appeared to still be addressing the crowd.

"And as these fair and just people stand here today in witness to this ordinance, if anyone, whatever their social status may be, dares directly or indirectly oppose this decision, will find themselves transgressors against the Crown and in so doing will be found guilty of the crime of high treason and will not only incur our grave indignation as well as the punishment of the already condemned, but also a much more final and exacting sentence."

Finally the High Steward's eyes drew away and back to his edict, confident that he had made his wishes known. Instilling in John that should he take any action that was contrary to this man or his wishes in any way, regarding anything; it would absolutely result in the end of John Watson's life.

"For all these things to be firm and forever established, we have put the King's seal on this document and it has been signed by my hand. Given here on this day. May the peace and glory of Castle Appledore never die."

With that, the High Steward left the balcony and retook his position upon his horse. 

It was then that the air around them crackled with anticipation. Causing the very air to shiver as though lightning were about to strike. 

The crowd, who had been standing idle with their handfuls of rot as they listened, now became rigid in their stances. Arms drawing back in excitement. Lips drawing up into sneers.

It took no more than a flick of the High Steward's thin hand for the ragged mass to let fly.

Within an instant, what had once been a docile group of dirty people, became a slavering throb of hatred. The crowd exploded with ferocity in all forms. And with such noise! Their verbal abuses tore at the man's character as equally as their projectiles tore at his person. 

The stocks gave the poor man no place to hide as he and it were ruthlessly pummeled.

Poorly aimed throws of shit and mud splattered against the heavy wood. Some of the hard soft fruits and vegetables tumbling away benignly.

But the throws that had been well placed struck true. And struck hard.

The condemned man was struck in the face by a rotten lettuce head (which exploded into a shower of soggy leaves) just before a small stone caught him across the forehead and made him cry out. Shrill and sharp. Opening a large gash in his brow.

John was only aware of how desperately he wanted to go up and free this man from such torture and not of his knees squeezing together, at least not until his horse began to move forward. But a slicing glance from the High Steward made him remember himself and he pulled his horse back into position.

There was nothing he could do for this man. His fate had been sealed.

John's job in this moment was to sit here and watch.

And so he did. He watched in horror as the baskets that had come from the tired man's cart were passed around through the crowd now. More of the putrid items taken up in hate and haste until they were all gone.

Long before they had run out of ammunition, the man in the stocks had stopped screaming. He hung there limply, fingers broken, face caked in a myriad of decay. A droplet of blood crept down his nose and dripped into the crystal pool below where the water was beginning to wash away the remnants of the crowd's fury. 

John took what little consolation he could from seeing the man's torso moving with shallow breaths to reassure himself that the man was still alive.

And just as quickly as it had begun, it was over. 

The crowd fell back into silence. Wiping the filth from their hands and the spit from their chins, they gathered up their children and spouses and returned to their houses in silence. As if they had not been there at all.

John watched, numb, as he saw the tired old man pull a large broom from his cart and begin to sweep the mess from the dirt. 

There was no man ordered to take the man from the stocks.

When he saw the High Steward finally turn, John met his gaze reluctantly.

"This is my Kingdom, John Watson. I own it. I keep it. And everything that is in it is mine. There is nothing that happens here that I do not see. It will do you well to remember that."

John, despite his want, did not look away.

"Now," the High Steward continued, "let us go and meet Prince Sherlock..."

//

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know! how rude. but i had to do one last chapter before they met. i promise they will in the next one though! be strong!!
> 
> in case it wasn't obvious, i beat the shit out of Anderson for this. so that should at least be worth something. :} poor little fella.
> 
> love and thanks to you all!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> finally!

CHAPTER (six) SIX

John did his best to keep his composure as the trio made their way up the long, spiraling staircase. 

But it was quite a feat.

His lungs burned. His thighs screamed for mercy. His armour felt as though it grew heavier with each laborious step while the parcel in his hand became a nuisance, became a rock, became a cannonball to carry. 

And the traitorous staircase that only spiraled right ever only revealed more blank, curving stone as it drove them up and up and up. 

Not even a window had been spared in this bleak tower. Leaving only the sparse and sputtering wall torches to light their way. It gave any who trespassed here the foreboding sense that if they were to go much farther, they would simply tip off the top of the world.

It was nigh on eternity before they finally reached the top.

"I shall give you a moment to collect yourselves." High Steward Charles said to William and John once they had finally cleared the landing a little ways behind him. Already quite use to having to climb these 17o steps as he did every day, he was hardly out of breath as he looked upon the two struggling men with some distaste. "I must make certain Prince Sherlock is ready."

John was able to wait until Charles had turned his back and made it halfway down the hall before he had to throw out an arm to brace himself upright. He was dying. He was sure of it. It was only by his strength of will alone that he did not crumple to his knees.

There was no way possible he could make this climb every day. Not if his and William's chambers were clear down at the bottom like the High Steward had hastily mentioned when they had begun their ascent. He was certain that he would expire upon the stairs within a fortnight.

The sound of a key fitting into a lock and the heavy clang of a bolt sliding back roused John from his ruminating. He blinked away the spots from his vision and saw a large wooden door at the end of the hall, fortified with black iron braces being slowly opened. And was confused.

The Prince of Castle Appledore had rooms here? Like this? Behind what might as well be a dungeon door? 

The shock of light that poured in from the room beyond made the dark hallway flare brightly, strangely after so much darkness, before leaving it to fire-eaten shadow once more as the door was closed again.

From inside, there was the sound of one raised voice. Deep and startling and clearly displeased before Charles' eerily calm one cut in in attempt to placate it. The murmur continued for a moment longer before falling silent.

Having finally gotten his breath back, John was about to turn and speak about his misgivings to William when the door opened once more and Charles' skeletal figure was a black silhouette in the opening.

"Prince Sherlock is ready to receive you now."

Swallowing the lump in his throat, John pushed himself up off the wall. 

This was it. The moment he had come all this way for. He was about to find out just what sort of a man lived at the very top of a tower in the castle that was the only gateway to the Northern world. 

The sound of John's metal gauntlet against the soft wood of the door seemed like a thunder stroke in the silence. The pins in the hinges groaning terribly as the heavy door swung back and John took the last breath he would ever take of his old life as he stepped inside the room. 

As his eyes adjusted to the brightness and took in the person before him, this person he was to serve for the rest of his days, John stopped breathing altogether.

Standing at the near center of the desolate solar, framed perfectly by a background of bright blue sky cut into a hundred small diamonds was the beautiful man that had haunted John's life since his knighting ceremony.

This was Prince Sherlock.

The man who had filled John's grueling days with soft thoughts and his nightmare-plagued nights with pleasant dreams.

This could not be real!

John had barely cleared the threshold before his legs gave out in sheer shock. It was only at the last moment that he was able to hide his outright collapse as a graceless fall to his knees. The carapace of his armour clattering raucously around him.

He bent his head until the scars on his back threatened to tear open. Until he was so near to kissing the stone floor in veneration that his breath, now coming in strident lungfuls, stirred the dust around them. The scent of this man pervaded John's every sense. His visage burned brightly in his retinas. His nostrils and mouth full of his taste and smell.

John was consumed by him. Body and soul.  
As he felt he always had been.

It could not be . . . it could not be! . . . he was not important enough to be granted this gift . . .

He was barely aware of William lowering himself down on one knee next to him in a far more graceful way. He heard nothing but a high-pitched ringing until the moment when William began giving him a reputation that was a lie.

"May I present to you Sir John Watson." William said smoothly as if this speech had been practiced, "the newly appointed Captain of the Yeomen of the Guards. Venerated war hero in the Battle for Umberland of the North and myself, William Knight, Sir John's squire. We come before you in whole and humble service, your Highness, by order of King Mycroft. May the peace and glory of Castle Appledore never die."

With his head bowed so low, John was unaware of the look that passed between the High Steward and the Prince at William's words. 

All John could do was swallow down the bitter bile that threatened to rise in his throat.

He was no hero.

Why did people say this?

More pressingly, John's mind caught on the fact that William was presenting himself as John's squire. Something they had not previously discussed at all. Though he supposed it made the most sense, given the circumstances, a nobleman serving as an attendant to a knight, for why else would he be here?

Prince Sherlock's voice as he spoke his first words in the presence of John, seemed to burrow straight down into John's core and take hold there, just like the rest of him. His voice was deep and commanding. Filling the entire solar with a velvet base.

"You. Leave us."

John's heart stuttered in his chest. Panic licking up his spine. He feared that he had made a fool of himself, coming to the floor in a heap like he did. He had displeased the Prince in some way unknown to him and was being dismissed. Before John had even had a chance to-- 

But Charles' voice responded to this command before John could move, for it had been directed at the High Steward.

John's breath hitched in relief.

"As ever, I am at your mercy, my Prince." Charles' voice seeped from his lips like poisonous vapour. Always so soft and lethal. 

The susurrus of his fine clothing indicated that he had bowed, before moving towards the door. He paused with one spidery hand curled around the wood however, "but be aware that I will require Sir John when you are finished with him. Be gentle with him for now. It has been a long while since you have had a guest and I find it regrettable that your brother should wish to bring you something so damaged."

Would a man so beautiful truly treat John with the brutality that Charles suggested? John would have to wait to see the truth of it, but he took the description of himself with all alacrity. It would be far better for Prince Sherlock to know precisely what sort of man was being presented to him. A skin of truth laid over the body of lies.

"You. Get out."

This command was given to William, for John saw from the corner of his eye the way William rose quickly and stepped outside the door.

Now alone, and with absolutely no idea what to do, John merely continued to kneel. It reminded him sharply of receiving his accolades. The cold stone floor digging into his kneecaps in the Great Hall, but this time he had his poleyns to add even more discomfort.

Prince Sherlock circled him once. Twice. Like a wolf deciding the best angle of attack for its caught prey. 

John did his best to hold absolutely still.

The soft leather padding of the Prince's boots sent motes of dust dancing through the strikes of sunbeam all around John. Making his surroundings glitter. 

Prince Sherlock came to a stop precisely where he had stood before and John imagined he could see the whole of him there. A dark sylph in the midst of his magic.

"Well?" Prince Sherlock asked, his voice taking on the tilt of the weary. "Aren't you bored of being down there already? It must be murder on your knees." 

John was so struck by the strangeness of the question that he stayed there. Unsure whether or not he should answer. 

This inaction seemed to displease Prince Sherlock further. "Rise then! On your feet! I've no time for idiots."

Completely flummoxed, John did so. But slowly. He kept his eyes fixed upon the far wall as he did so, unwilling to look at the Prince directly, for he did not know if that would be considered offensive. 

There was much he did not think to make clear before he had made this climb up 17o steps.

But as John stood there, unwilling to let himself look, he could feel the Prince's eyes as they scoured him in return. With no humility. But they did not rake across him in the scathing way that the High Steward's had; they instead pressed like fingers through his armour, through his skin, and exposed his insides like the pages of an uncurling book.

He was looking at John with curiosity.

It thrilled John immensely, this touch of his eyes, and Prince Sherlock misread his shiver as fear.

"Are you afraid of me Sir John?"

John knew he should answer his Prince, but again the words would not come to him. They remained trapped at the back of his tongue. None of them willing to come to the forefront of his mouth. But John was absolutely certain that it was not, above all things, fear that stayed them. John could not be afraid of that which he coveted.

"Well? Do you talk? You do know how to speak, don't you?" Sherlock asked, irritation now circling around his words like smoke. "My brother has not sent me a mute as some cruel joke?"

"No! I mean---yes. Your Highness. I can speak." John's voice was thin when it emerged. But his answer did finally please.

"Ah! It does speak!" Another brush from those palpable eyes was favoured upon him. Reading more of him like an illuminated text. "Do you do any other tricks I wonder? Like perhaps addressing your Prince directly? Or am I so ugly that you should always deign to stare at a wall?"

John's eyes locked with Sherlock's so fiercely that it hit them both like they had just tilted against each other in a joust. 

Prince Sherlock's breath caught just as suddenly as John's had upon entering the room and seeing him standing there. 

There would never again be a doubt between them that John thought of Sherlock as anything but beautiful.

After a moment, shaking off his surprise, Prince Sherlock drew himself to his full height and stepped back, tilting just so into the light to put himself on display. He was fully aware of the effect this gave and he preened as though he were a bird, letting John Watson, humble beggar that he was, look his fill.

Prince Sherlock was more beautiful than John's memories had imagined him.

He stood a whole head higher than John and looked to be as thin as a rye stalk. His features had been powdered completely white. Leaving only the shocking sin of his rouge lips and the slicing cut of his coal-lined eyes to emerge from that architectural impossibility that was his face.

Around his long, powdered throat was a wide choker of pearls, followed beneath by a swath of the same that practically poured over his broad chest, offset against the lily-white that all his exposed flesh had been powdered to. 

The fabric that made up his tunic beneath all this was so dark that only when he breathed could the purple of its thread be seen and only here in the brightest sunlight did it make itself known. 

The tunic was long and form fitting, hugging his every curve before flaring at his hips like a gown and it did not end until it reached his booted ankles. It was edged in the same gold border as the sash bound around his slim waist and seemed to give a barrier to the intricate pattern of small golden basilisks that were embroidered by the finest hand throughout the fabric. 

The entire drape of black and purple and gold and ivory was so extravagant that it almost seemed unnecessary for him to be wearing a glittering amethyst set into the center of a thin, golden crown. But for him not to wear this extraordinary piece of refinery, letting it float in the cloudburst of his black curls as it did, it seemed more a shame for him to do without. 

"Is what you see acceptable to you, Sir John?" Prince Sherlock asked, his voice a low rumble that felt as though it could shake the earth beneath John's feet if he so wanted.

"It is, your Highness." More than John actually thought, but did not voice this. Thinking it imprudent.

Sherlock's fine-boned fingers raised in such a way as to splay tip-to-tip before his chin. A gesture akin to prayer, but different enough to not be mistaken as such. 

He leaned in closely. Until there was nothing but his tilted, sky-coloured eyes for John to see. He was everything in his vision.

His breath felt hot on John's chin. "Were you sent here to spy on me Sir John?"

John blinked. Thrown off once more by this man and his odd questions. "No. Your Highness."

"Then why?" Prince Sherlock asked quietly, rhetorically, nearly in a whisper. His eyes searched through John for an answer that he would not find. "Why were you sent here of all poor souls? What terrible thing could you have possibly done to be given such a cursed fate?"

On the contrary, John thought, he had been bestowed the greatest of all gifts. 

But he felt it better not to go against his Prince. John's was voice rough within the close proximity. "I do not know. I was sent here to serve you at King Mycroft's request. That is all I know. Your Highness."

"Hm. I did not realize that a Captain was also fit to be a messenger as well?" Confused for a moment, John glanced down to see what Sherlock was looking at and then jumped to hand it to him. He'd forgotten the parcel was even there.

"I was asked to give this to you by Brother Michael."

"Brother Michael?" Sherlock took up the package like a child given a treat and tore at the string and paper, discarding them both to the floor. The contents of the box were merely a rattle of small things that John was unable to see, but he was more transfixed by the way Sherlock's movements slowed and how he turned to the window, lifting the vial of mud to its light for inspection.

He stared at it, utterly mesmerized. Slowly rotating the little opaque glass in his long fingers as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. He seemed to forget about John.

It was a long while before he let his hand drop. Apparently having seen all there was to see of the (to John) unremarkable vial. It ended up being swallowed by his palm as he set his fists against the sill.

"Is he still fat?" Sherlock asked, his voice a far away thundercloud. His eyes were staring out of the window in deep contemplation.

"He is, your Highness."

Sherlock snorted in a soft, warm laugh before lapsing back into the silence. And did not speak again.

As time passed, the silence continued to seep around them until it fills not only the room, but also John's self as well. And for the first time in a long time his head was quiet. His heart was quiet. And he was content to set his eyes upon the sky beyond the iron window with his Prince and watch the clouds drift by. With no want to be anywhere else.

It was on this unimportant day, in this monumental moment, that John Watson of Umberland of the North, swore himself to Sherlock Holmes, Prince of Castle Appledore, for ever and for always. Duty or no. With so few words spoken between them. Because he was absolutely certain that the feeling in his chest was the swell of new love and that with a little patience and kindness and caring, it would be able to grow large enough to fill the chasm inside him.

It was almost an hour later that Sherlock began to stir to life again. There was a sharp intake of breath, followed by the subtle shifting of his shoulders and he came back into himself in an instant, spinning around on his heel. 

His eyes widened and his mouth clicked shut as he took in John's presence.

"You're . . . still here?"

John managed to compose an answer for his Prince this time. "Yes your Highness. I did not know if--"

Sherlock growled suddenly, cutting off his sentence. His fingers flashing open in irritation. "Must you insist on calling me 'your Highness' every time?! If this is to be our new arrangement, you and I will both find it incredibly tiresome to hear at the end of everything."

John scrambled to think of another title. Something else to call him by that would still show the respect he was to be afforded. "No . . . my Prince. I--"

Sherlock snorted in further distaste, his mouth curling up into a grimace. "By God's bones, not that. Anything but that." And then it became suddenly clear to John that that is what Charles called him.

John berated himself in his idiocy.

"No." Sherlock's voice was soft when he spoke again, his head bobbing in a nod as he came to his own decision. His fingers pressed back against his chin solemnly. "You shall address me as Sherlock from now on Sir John. That is my name, after all. In the presence of others you may call me 'your Highness' but when it is just you and I alone as I foresee it will be for a long while, you will call me by my name. Do you understand?"

"I . . . Yes. My--" John corrected himself quickly, "Sherlock." He was entirely unable to control the furious blush that stole over his features. That burned his ears. It felt strange to be allowed to say his name. To have so intimate a thing requested and on the very first day of their meeting no less! 

But John would do it. Of course he would. He would do anything Sherlock asked of him.

John was too consumed with feeling the shape of the word on his tongue to notice the structure of his broken sentence.

But Sherlock did.

Emboldened by this request, John chanced to make one of his own: "Then, if this shall be the way of things, I ask that you call me John. If it pleases you. Sherlock." John offered. Unable to keep from saying his name again. Now that he had the right to do so.

"It does indeed." Sherlock said and then, surprisingly, let a soft smile grace his painted lips. His austere features in all that makeup softening handsomely. "John."

Prince Sherlock turned back toward the window, but this time remained embodied within his person. His gaze outside was of a different sort this time, one that pressed through the cage of diamonds and out into the vast pink sunset that was beginning to give a blush to all he looked over. And for the first time in a long time, appreciated it.

"I will not require your company any longer today." Sherlock said gently after another comfortable silence befell them. His hands were cupped into each other behind his back and he did not turn his head. "Go and get settled in your new chambers. Have rest, for tomorrow shall be a long and tiresome day. And please do not feel the need to wear any of that ridiculous armour in my presence again. We are hardly liable to be attacked by anyone all the way up here. Good day to you, John."

Being dismissed, though knowing it was on good terms, John wet his lips with his tongue and bowed at the waist, knowing the entire time that Sherlock was looking at him through the reflection of the glass. "Good day. Sherlock."

And as he shut the door to the solar behind him, there was a smile on his face that he had not smiled since he was a boy. When he used to think that the only riches he would ever experience in his life were to be found in the fields and meadows.

Back before he had ever thought to look to the sky.

//


	8. CHAPTER (seofon) SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is sent on an important errand.

Early morning found John in an anxious disposition, despite having had the best night's sleep he had ever had in his life.

After leaving Sherlock's solar yesterday, John had been silently shown to his chambers by the High Steward, which had turned out to be a room of his own with a real bed with real sheets and a real mattress filled with down.

Sheer bliss compared to the straw-filled sack he had shared with Harriet and Clara back home.

He had risen before daybreak and dressed by candlelight. Anticipation and doubt still gnawing at his guts that perhaps yesterday had been a figment of his imagination. But William's stroke upon the door to wake him a short while later had done much to calm his nerves.

John only glanced up from battling to get his boots on to see William carrying in his armour.

"I'll not be wearing those today." John said offhandedly, a little breathless as he tried another go at stabbing his foot into his loose shoe unsuccessfully. He'd spent most of his risen hour trying to get his hose on, and that had used up all the flexibility his back was willing to give him today. "Lord Sherlock has requested it."

William simply smiled, "and you'll not be wearing those either." Nodding his head towards the ratty brown tunic and green hose that John had managed to dress himself in. The only ones he owned.

"As the newly appointed Captain of the Yeomen of the Guards, you are to wear these."

From the hollow carapace of John's cuirass, William withdrew the hidden surprise of an entirely new wardrobe. A sky blue doublet, a pair of brown hose, white braies, knee-high boots, a wide brown belt, and a hooded brown leather traveling cloak that had all looked fresh off of beast and loom.

"Lord Sherlock has requested it." William added cheekily, coming down onto one knee and presenting these gifts to John.

For a moment, John had been in awe. That Prince Sherlock would see fit to gift him such fine things after only one day of knowing him . . .

It had thrilled John to know that he was about to be in the man's company once more.

Swallowing his surprise, John and William both made quick work of getting John redressed in his new garments. And John marveled at the feeling of the soft textiles as they slipped over his battered skin.

It felt glorious, how the silken hose rolled so smoothly up his muscled thighs. How delicious it was to tuck himself into his new braies and not be scratched by them. How it changed his entire posture to don the velvet doublet and cinch the belt, before sliding into the cloak.

He could have wept with how delicately his new clothes held on to him and how much of a new man they made him feel.

But when he was asked to sit and William had bent to help him with his boots, John's stomach had given a nervous swoop. Did he look the part that Sherlock clearly wanted him to? Would he live up to all the expectations that would be made of him? What would he be tasked to do? Would he--

"So what's Prince Sherlock like?" William asked, pulling John from his spiral of doubt as he pulled the laces taut at John's shin.

"He--" John faltered, trying to come up with words that would adequately describe such a creature as unfathomable as Sherlock. "I don't know yet."

William smirked knowingly and looked up at him from beneath his pale eyebrows. "Clearly keen on you. That's for certain."

"D'you think?" John let the little flame of hope flicker in his chest.

William's smirk cocked into a crooked grin before turning to slide John's other foot into his other boot.

"I'd bet the stars on it."

John opened his mouth to reply only to be interrupted by a rap on his chamber door. William laced his other boot up before answering.

When John saw that it was the High Steward, he pushed himself up from the bed and stood as straight as he could.

The High Steward looked down on John in a gown of gold, clearly taking in John's new wardrobe. But whether he approved or disapproved of it, he gave no clue. And immediately began to walk away.

Taking his cue from the High Steward, John remained absolutely silent as he followed him up the endlessly turning stairs. He counted the turns in his head (to occupy himself more than anything) one wall torch to each level of the tower. Each one leading him closer.

23 . . . 62 . . . 89 . . . 125 . . . 163 . . .

By the 167th step, John was surprised to find that he was still keeping pace quite easily with Charles, as opposed to yesterday, when it had felt as though he was being led to his doom by the Reaper himself. Today John had to physically restrain himself from bolting straight on past him to get to Sherlock first.

And when John was able to finally lay eyes upon the great heavy door, the last obstacle that kept him from his Prince, his heart gave a mighty leap in his breast with excitement. Soon. Soon.

Until the High Steward put himself physically between them.

"There are a number of rules that I feel need to be made clear to you Captain, if this little arrangement is to continue:

"I will gather you every morning before sunrise and take you to your chambers every night after sunset. I hold the only key to this door and I will be the only one to use it.

"Prince Sherlock is still recovering from illness. He has been confined to his chamber until there is absolutely no doubt that the sickness will not return for him. The door will remained unlocked throughout the day so that the servants may come and go, but he is not to leave his chamber. No matter what.

"Which means that you are to keep him occupied and in good spirits at all times. He is never to fall into melancholy under any circumstances.

"These are the rules by which I will hold in accordance this ridiculous notion that Sherlock was ever in need of a new Captain of the Yeomen of the Guards. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes my Lord." John said. He practically shivered with excitement. WHOLE days left alone with Sherlock. It was unfathomable.

"Additionally," Charles added. The feathers at his throat quivering as he spoke. "Every morning you are to remain out here until I call you in. Do you understand?"

His cold eyes meant to pierce John against the wall, but the only good they did was to keep his boots from floating off the ground.

"Yes my Lord." John nodded and took up a stiff position. One as befitting of a Captain as he could manage.

Satisfied, though clearly not pleased, the High Steward knocked twice upon the door before fitting a large key into the heavy lock. The thick bolt followed soon after, screeching abominably as it was pulled back from its heavy bracing.

Barely opening the door, Charles slipped inside to no welcome.

John did his best not to eavesdrop...but could hardly help it. The naked stone walls with not but a torch to stare at did little to keep his mind focused elsewhere. And though the wooden door was nearly shut, he could still make out the quiet murmurings from within.

There was the sound of mild surprise, followed by a brief conversation. Charles' voice was too soft to understand, but whatever it was that they were speaking about clearly ended in the form of a question. And Sherlock's answer to this was an unmistakable 'no', followed by Charles speaking to him again. Explaining something.

It ended with a stilted silence before Charles made a final comment and he was so close to the opening of the door now that John heard him clearly.

"The physician will be up shortly to see to you, my Prince. I look forward to her diagnosis."

And all of a sudden the High Steward was pressing out the door, carrying before him a tray laden with a golden plate that overflowed with a myriad of fruits, vegetables, various breads, and three different kinds of meats.

The left overs of Sherlock's breakfast.

Ignoring his stomach's envious roil at the lavish spread, John noticed instead how each and every morsel had been nibbled upon to some degree. Some onions had been taken from the gravy, a few grapes were missing from their pedicels. Entire slices of bread left holes from where they had once been artfully placed and even the meats looked as though a questing pair of fingers had rooted through them.

The High Steward saw John looking over the food and stopped before him again, leaning down in a way that was meant to intimidate. "Given early evidence, it appears that your presence may prove to be of some value after all, Captain." His tone seemed slightly surprised by this, though his skeletal face was inscrutable. "I do hope you will do everything in your power not to spoil it."

"Yes my Lord." John answered and watched as the High Steward's feather-wrung head disappeared down the steps.

John paused briefly, staring at the empty mouth of the stairway, unsure how much time he should take..perhaps he should wait until he was bidden...the choice was made for him when he heard Sherlock's deep voice call to him. "Come in Captain. It does either of us little good to have you loiter outside."

Upon entering, John had to take pause. For he was struck once again by the ethereal beauty that was Prince Sherlock and he imagined he would be struck each and every time he laid eyes upon the man. But at least this time, he was ready enough for it that he didn't fall to his knees.

Sherlock stood facing John with his hands behind his back. His elegant figure haloed in by the pale light of morning, which served as a perfect backdrop to the dove gray gown threaded with gold that swathed his lean body in beautiful lines and made the fabric itself seem to glow.

His chest and neck were draped with the same thousand pearl collar he had worn the day before and his powdered, coaled, and rouge-painted face looked somber but not displeased.

There was no crown upon his head today, John noticed, only the tempest swirl of his dark black hair. But there was a twinkle in his eye that wanted to burst into a smile.

"I see your new garments fit you well." Sherlock said, pleased, as he gave John a once-over. "Hopefully they are to your liking."

"Very much so." John blurted. He had nearly said 'my Lord' but caught his tongue just in time. "That is...I have never worn such fine things in all my life. I do not know how I will ever repay you."

Sherlock crinkled his nose. "It was a gift, John. They were not meant for repayment. Besides, I--"

There was a knock at the door and Sherlock's face crumbled into a scowl.

And then John witnessed something as strange as it would have been to watch the moon change her phase in the course of one night; he watched a terrible temper overtake Sherlock completely.

His back stretched up until his visage loomed. His angles becoming sharp and foreboding. He took on a humour that was as icy and unwelcoming as the High Steward bore always.

"Enter." He called shortly.

A woman entered wearing a plain gray dress with white sleeves. Her brown hair had been plaited and pinned across her hairline. In her hands was a clear glass flask with a wide mouth, a long neck, and a round base. She kept her eyes to the ground until she noticed that there was somebody else in the room.

Looking up in surprise, she gave John a close-lipped smile that made her cheeks dimple in a lovely way before it was scared straight off her face.

"Do not speak to him." Sherlock barked, making his way behind the triptych screen as the woman followed. This was obviously an exercise they had performed many times. "Collect your business and go."

Perhaps it was due to John's presence, but the young woman fumbled with the flask and very nearly dropped it before handing it over, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes exasperatedly.

"Turn away." Sherlock said and John only blinked at the pearl-encrusted bust of him that rose above the elaborate screen. Sherlock was looking from John to his waist, trying to do something there. When John still did not move, his displeasure grew. "Have you become deaf Captain? I said turn away."

John turned on his heel in an instant and let his embarrassment eat him. Better to focus on that than what precisely it was he was hearing: the sound of urine being excreted into a glass container.

He kept his eyes fixed upon the door until the meek woman left through it with the flask half full in her hand. The door closed solidly behind her.

"Boorish imbeciles." Sherlock grumbled, his voice sounding as though he was much closer. "I wish these physicians would learn that they're not only wasting their own time, but more importantly mine with this nonsense."

"She's a physician then?" John asked, not really certain what had just occurred or why. His only experience with physicians had been the ones assigned to the wounded after the Battle for Umberland of the North and they had done little to actually save his life.

"Physician's apprentice actually." Sherlock confessed with distaste. "But she's the best of the whole lot, if I'm to be honest." He walked until he was between John and the door now, the terrible humour having left him for the more kindly manner that John was accustomed to. His shard-like eyes were soft again. "But she has a lot yet to learn and it would do her well to use her eyes, instead of putting her trust into old books."

"And how is she supposed to learn if not from books?" At first, it felt strange to speak to Sherlock in such a dissenting way, but the Prince seemed to relish in it, for he took John by the shoulder to speak to him. Like an old friend.

"Ah! There you have hit upon the true problem: she must learn through practice, John. Practice." Sherlock emphasized, accentuating his words with wild movement from one of his hands. His eyes sparkled like torches, as though John had stoked a fire in him. "A practice should not be based on speculative theory such as it is. No. It should be the other way round; where the theory one comes to is based on practice! Do you see? They do not need to consult the stars or gaze at piss to find their answers! They have merely to look at what is before them! That is the ONLY way of coming to the proper conclusion!"

To this, John merely raised his eyebrows. For what did he know of physician's educations and Princely deductions? He did not have an answer that would suit, he was sure.

At his deafening silence, Sherlock's lips tightened and he drew his hands away.

"Apologies John." He mumbled, standing from his stoop and turning away to cover what John clearly saw was embarrassment on his behalf. "It's been a while since I've had decent company and I've been told I have the tendency to ...blather."

John could still feel the heat from the Prince's hand burning into his skin. "I don't mind."

"Do you not?" Sherlock asked, slightly surprised, looking at him again. Then he seemed to weigh something in his mind. "And what if I didn't talk for days on end? Would that not bother you either?"

John shook his head honestly. "No."

Sherlock hummed and wandered away a bit, taking up a large tome that John had not noticed resting at the foot of the well-made four-posted bed.

He came back over to stand too close again, his crystal eyes boring into John like lightning through a tree. "Interesting." He tilted his head. His voice dropping into a whisper that was an octave lower than his usual voice. "Then, perhaps, your congeniality would extend so far as to obtain an item for me? One that, if you were caught trying to acquire it, would see you fined for all you have, would see you stripped of your title, and sent to prison for the rest of your life? Or is there a point at which your congeniality stops?"

John blinked, but did not need to consider it. He licked his lips. "What's the item?"

A brilliant smile broke out across Sherlock's face. One that made his temples squish up into the rays of the sun.

"Excellent." Sherlock beamed. Into John's hands he dropped the giant tome without any warning at all and it was only by chance that John was able to catch it.

The book was large and calf bound, with two intricate gold clasps linking the covers together. Sherlock's long fingers made quick work of them, soft pads nimble as they crawled through the pages to find what he was looking for. Subtle colours and uncountable specimens flashed past.

Sherlock's hands fluttered around and around John's. Occasionally brushing.

He stopped on a page that took John's breath away.

 

      

 

To John's illiterate eye, the calligraphy at the top of the page was merely a large box of precisely written swirls that looked pleasingly assembled, but the illustrations beneath them, they were what staggered John. For never had he seen such beautiful things put down on pages before. And with such detail.

The illustration beneath the words was of a black fungus with a blood-fringed cap that grew out around only three quarters of its stalk. The red edge of it was thick and sloping, giving the mushroom the appearance of a horse's hoof. Its odd colours making it incredibly striking.

"This is beautiful." John said reverently, too engrossed in the illustration to see flattery flutter across Sherlock's features. He gently touched a finger to the drawing, feeling the indentations the quill had made in the page, as though he could feel the ridges on its cap.

He did not see the surprised eyes Sherlock favored him with.

After a stunned moment, Sherlock cleared his throat and refocused himself. Beginning to pace a small pattern in front John. "R-radix pedis diaboli." His hands came up together before his chin in a wide splay of fingers. "Or perhaps known better as 'the devil's-foot root'. Named so for the way the pileus cracks up the middle when the fungus dries out, giving it the appearance of a cloven hoof.

"This is the item that I would like for you to fetch for me John. Three to five of them of good size. There's an ... it's an ingredient that until now I've been unable to get ahold of and I need it."

A thought struck John suddenly as he looked at the little painting of the bee buzzing almost lifelike in the corner. Reminding him sharply of the fields back home. The fine quill strokes it took to make it look fuzzy. "Did you draw these?"

Sherlock was caught off guard again. " ...Yes?"

"Oh." John turned back to the painting and stared at it. Retaking in the delicate lines. The impressive details in the shading, even the artful precision given to the moss that grew on the bit of wood the mushroom was attached to. It was all so real.

Sherlock cleared his throat, a bit uncomfortable now. "Come over here and I'll show you."

He led John to the window and took the book from his hands, clearly satisfied that John knew what he would be looking for. He threw the tome a bit carelessly onto the bed before grabbing something else John hadn't been paying enough attention to see when he'd come in.

It was a long cylinder of wood that, to John's surprise, slipped out to reveal a smaller cylinder inside of it, making it grow longer. The whole apparatus slowly graduated in size until it came to an end with a rounded piece of glass.

Sherlock brought the thing up to his eye, then glanced at John and bent his knees a bit to match height with John. He pointed it out the window.

But John's wondrous eyes were now riveted to the apparatus. "What is that?" He asked, almost with a child's sense of wonder. Never having seen its like before.

"Uh," Sherlock stuttered a bit more and took it back down from his eye, blinking. He looked it over like it was brand new in his hands. Like it had never been in his possession at all. "It's, well, a ...looking glass, I suppose. I haven't named it. I just--It's meant to help me see things that are very far away."

"You made this?" John asked in even more amazement, his eyes pouring over the object again like he couldn't believe it. Like it was a treasure.

"I did." Sherlock breathed, confused by the utter adoration that had overtaken John with such a simple tool. Did peasants not know of--?

"It's extraordinary." John turned to him, the same adoration still blazing across his face. It put them close. Inches apart really.

Close enough to kiss.

"Do you think so?" Sherlock asked despite all the evidence.

"Of course I do." John assured him, his dark blue eyes all that Sherlock saw. The naked awe in them. The way his little pink tongue darted out in the midst of his graying beard to wet his lips and leave them invitingly shiny. "It's extraordinary. You're extraordinary."

Sherlock's sharp intake of breath shattered the moment.

John, blinked, then blinked again, and in that moment of John realizing what he had just confessed, Sherlock gained intimate knowledge at just how quickly discomfiture could overtake a man's face.

John's cheeks turned so crimson that even his ears went pink. And his throat clicked panically as he swallowed and swallowed at words that would never come back to him.

He had the irrational urge to flee, but there was no where to run. So John simply turned back to the diamond-patched window and tried not to die on the spot.

It took Sherlock a long while to regain his composure as well, for he stood there like a statue staring at the place that John's face had vacated and tried to understand what he had just heard.

Did John just say that he was ...extraordinary? How could that be? He was rude. He was arrogant. A spoilt, selfish, and cowardly craven. These were the things that Sherlock was. Not extraordinary. Surely not.

But perhaps...

Sherlock buried the seed of his thought and turned to the window as well. Looking out onto the South valley through a torrid of pounding hearts.

From this height, Baker Town looked as though it had been built for insects. A scattering of little white boxes with dark slashes of roads in between. The East and West Lower Rivers, which ran along its borders, snaked off lazily into the horizon.

Sherlock handed off the looking glass to John's gentle hands and tried not to make a mess of it.

"See there?" Sherlock pointed to the green swell of the Royal Forest of Baskerville, which took up the entire East side of the East Lower River. And realizing himself, helped John adjust the looking glass so that he could see it too.

John could make out the pale trunks of the trees and the dark undergrowth quite well. Every fifty feet was a small campfire that looked no bigger than the flame of a candle. Strategically placed, so even at night the Royal guards stationed there could keep an eye out for trespassers.

"That's where you'll have to go." Sherlock said, standing at John's back now. Close again. Close enough that John could feel the heat coming off of him. Far too close to have been frightened about what John had said and if John needed any more reassurance, Sherlock's hands on his shoulders solidified it. "It could be dangerous..."

They both felt the thrill that went through John when he said that. And, taking that as a cue, Sherlock leaned in even closer, so close that John could feel Sherlock's breath on the hairs of his beard, his voice falling into a dark whisper at his throat.

"Please John. Will you do this for me?"

And both of them knew that John would not deny him anything now.

//

John was crouched at the water's edge, making himself appear busy as he slowly peeled his apple. He cut away the fruit's skin carefully with his little blade, letting it uncoil around his hands in one large strip. Hoping that he looked much more aloof than he actually felt.

Because he was the only person out in the open in the entirety of the town.

Not a single person walked the streets. No voices came from the houses. The doors and windows all remained shut.

Baker Town remained as silent as it had been when he had first ridden through.

By the afternoon, John had made the decision to stop his semi-idle wandering and surreptitiously watch the edge of the Forest instead, to see if there were perhaps a weakness he could exploit.

But security around the Forest was endlessly vigilant. Much to his dismay, two guards had been stationed at each campfire and while one slept or cooked or wandered off to take a piss, the second took their place and saw everything.

Running out of peel, John glanced nonchalantly up and for a horrifying second, met eyes with one of the guards. He froze in place, the blade of his knife pressing into his thumb pad hard enough to draw blood.

He was caught!

But the guard simply raised his arm and waved at him.

John's heart restarted in his chest as he tentatively lifted his arm and waved back. His bleeding thumb making its way to his mouth.

He remained staring at the standing guard, who had turned back to speak to the other one seated at the small fire and thought about the man's casual friendliness. Perhaps he could exploit it.

He thought on the three gold sovereigns William had pushed into his hand when he had left, 'just in case' he had said. And maybe he was right.

Would it be possible for John to maybe bribe them...?

But no. What if they were not the sort to be bribed? What if they exposed him and he was punished like Sherlock had said?

To return without the item and see the disappointment on Sherlock's face would be one thing, but to be imprisoned and not be able to return at all? That was anathema.

Best not to risk it.

Brother Michael's gray mare had drunk her fill and now stood idly at John's side. In a way making John feel far more exposed on the river bank than he was before, for he could not play the part of a resting traveler any longer.

He had to move on and find another way.

Splitting the apple with his horse, John lowered his mouth into the water and took large frigid gulps that quenched him utterly.

Standing up, wringing out his beard, John mounted and kicked his horse southward. Not allowing himself to look back until he had reached the very edge of Baker Town's borders. It was only then that he twisted back in his saddle, looking to the sky to try and rebuild his confidence for the journey ahead.

But it did little to encourage him, for what he saw boiling around the high needle of Sherlock's tower, were pregnant thunderclouds that looked like they wanted to do nothing more than drown the earth.

//

John did not allow himself to sleep, he merely made camp beneath the overhang of a large tree and rested his eyes against its trunk.

The night around him was a black downpour.

He was soaked to the bone, but did not want to remove his boots in fear that he wouldn't be able to put them back on. The small fire he'd made sputtered and hissed as rain made its way through the branches.

The mare snuffled at the choice of grass she had beneath the tree and bumped his shoulder unhappily.

"I know. I know. Just until the rain lets up." John sighed, patting her softly. The course hairs on her nose tickling his palm while her lips nibbled hopefully for more apple. "Or at first light. Whichever comes first. We'll move then."

Thunder crashed loudly across the open field and a lightning bolt lit up the sky.

//

Sherlock sat in the gloaming dark on the edge of the bed, his eyes glazed over as the virgin rain beat heavily against the window. Slicking down like tears. The cold weight of the looking glass had settled by his hand.

Sherlock had watched the small blue speck that was John until he had lost sight of him completely.

And now the morning was on its way.

He did not react to the knock that came upon his door. Nor to the bolt sliding back with a metal scream.

He only blinked once when the skeletal hand slid over his. Its many rings tinkling.

"Has he not returned then?" The High Steward asked unnecessarily. "What a pity." He brought Sherlock's limp hand to his own face and let the knuckles drag across the high mountains of his cheekbones. "But perhaps it's for the best, my Prince. There is not a person in the Kingdom that cares for you like I do."

Charles took him gently by the chin when he did not respond and made him look at him. "You do know that don't you? How I long for you." He leaned in close, as though he wanted to kiss him. "It's far better for the Captain to have shown his true colours and run away now instead of running away later, wouldn't you agree?"

Sherlock did not answer.

Charles watched the rain with him for a while, stroking Sherlock's fingers as gently as if they belonged to him.

"And what is your answer today, my lambkin?" Charles asked. As he asked every morning.

"No." Sherlock said.

But it was hardly even a whisper.

/

William came in place of John as daylight broke open amidst all the rain.

Sherlock sent him away by not speaking to him at all.

//

The Diogenes Crossing was not as alive as it had been when John had first ridden through. But it was far more lively than Baker Town. And that was a start.

The torrential downpour had forced most of the sellers who worked from tents and wagons to keep their businesses closed and wait for the storm to pass. Those in buildings fared a little bit better. But not by much.

The dirt road had turned to mush beneath John's horse's hooves. Puddles of water building up in the ruts. John avoided the largest of them while leading his horse by the reigns and asked every person he came across if they knew of anyone who sold the devil's foot.

But none of them did.

And despite the way he tried to hold onto it, each time he stopped, each time he was declined, the hope in John's chest that he would be able to accomplish this impossible task wicked away as quickly as the rain stole the heat from his body.

/

It was not until that night, when the downpour had finally slackened, when the sun had begun to set once more as though it too was weary of the rain, that John came across his salvation.

He was headed back towards Appledore Castle.

Morose with his head full of the all the devastating ideas of what Sherlock's beautiful features may curdle into at the news of John's failure, when a familiar and terrible screaming ripped through the air and was silenced just as swiftly with the deft plock! of a butcher's blade.

It was then that he got his brilliant idea.

/

"I don't believe it should be a problem, sir." The woman said brightly, wiping some of the blood from her hands on a linen rag that sat next to the suckling piglet she had just hacked into pieces. "But I'll not be feeding the pigs again until the morning..."

"That would be fine." John said, too desperate to care otherwise. He pressed all three gold sovereigns into her palm and watched her eyes go wide. The fresh pig's blood she hadn't managed to clean off burned his frozen hands as if it were on fire.

It had to be fine.

/

It was not until twilight on the third day that John was able to return to Castle Appledore.

"Wipe her down!" John had bellowed at William, who'd met him at the gate. He jumped from her back while she was still in motion, throwing her reigns over. "I've ridden her hard a long way without stopping. She needs food and water as soon as you can."

"And what about you?!" William called, but John had already disappeared.

/

He bolted hard up the stairs, taking them two at a time until it was impossible to. His boots squelched on every step. Tired legs trying to collapse beneath him. But he would not let them.

Every torch at every turn became an orange blur to his left as he hurdled up and up and up and up. Ceaseless and uncountable. Dark smudges at the edge of his periphery.

The only warning he had that he had reached the top was the sudden flurry of colour as he nearly crashed straight into the High Steward himself.

"Oh. Captain." He said with absolutely no emotion. "You have returned after all."

John had no doubt that he looked a fright as he weathered the cold rake of the High Steward's dead eyes. His clothing was caked with mud and felt a thousand times heavier than when he'd first put it on. His beard felt as solid as a sheaf of barley on the bottom of his face. And he sucked in such big lungfuls of air that black spots danced before his vision. "Please." He gasped. "Please."

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to return in the morning." The High Steward informed him, a curl to his thin lips. "I've already locked the door for the night."

"Please." John wheezed again, unable to keep from putting his hands on his knees. He felt like he was going to collapse. His back protested bitterly. "...please..."

He had come all this way.

But just as the High Steward opened his mouth to deny him again, Sherlock's tentative voice called through the door. "Captain?"

John tried to call back, but the word was lost.

A terrible pounding fell upon the door then. "High Steward! Open the door! The Captain has an item for me..."

The High Steward hesitated for a minute, before flicking the key back out and unlocking it, leaving the bolt for John.

It took all the rest of his energy to pull it back.

But what he uncovered inside was worth all his effort.

Sherlock was painted and pearled and sparkled like the royalty he was. While John looked not dissimilar to a drowned cat someone had lifted from a rut in the road.

They stood staring at one another.

"Hello Captain." Sherlock finally said, not betraying even a whisper of their familiarity with the High Steward present. But he hoped that John saw the delight in his eyes. Hoped he felt the gratefulness that radiated from him.

"Your Highness." John said back, tipping his head in a bow, before reaching to his belt and untying the small bag from his waist and handing it over.

Into his own large hand, Sherlock shook out ten quality mushrooms. All of them precisely the same colour and shape of the ones that he had shown John from his book. All of them perfect specimens. More than he had asked for.

Sherlock glanced back up at him, his crystal eyes aglow with a language that the dead could not speak, trusting that John was alive and that he understood and tomorrow they could be alone together once more. "Goodnight. Captain."

John bowed again and felt the same. "Goodnight your Highness."

When the High Steward had shut the door between them, had walked them to the top of the steps which were far enough away from the door that Sherlock would not hear, he turned to John. "All this?" He asked, eyeing him critically. Trying to make John wither beneath his stare. "For an insignificant mushroom?"

"Yes my Lord." John answered. Because John knew in his heart as much as in his head.

That it wasn't insignificant at all.

It meant everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now obviously, Sherlock didn't invent the telescope. it was really Hans Lippershey of the Netherlands ... and historically not until the 1600s. but i really liked the idea of the boys bonding over a phallic object. so hee!
> 
> also. the page from the book that Sherlock uses to show John what the mushroom looks like was inspired (and subsequently photoshopped by me) by the Mira Calligraphiae Monumenta which is one of the most gorgeous books I've ever seen and you should plug the name of it into your search bar just to take a gander at it! it was inscribed in the 16th century by Georg Bocskay and illuminated by Joris Hoefnagel and holy geeze it's fucking magnificent!
> 
> 'Radix pedis diaboli' is from "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot" which i turned into a mushroom cause i think that's cooler than just a plant.
> 
> ooo. rating goes up next chapter my lovelies. :} thanks for reading!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets some much deserved tlc and the boys learn more about each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so listen. i'm still reeling from whatever the fuck season 4 was supposed to be. i literally can't even watch it. i feel like the writer's betrayed the very heart of the show they created and it's making it difficult for me to find the pulse of it again. but i am trying, i'd still like to try, because i do enjoy writing this stuff and i still have lots of other stories to tell. but just know that the updates aren't going to be as quick and barring a 'Lost Special' that magically fixes all the shit they fucked up, it's going to take me a while to fall in love with Sherlock again.
> 
> so here's hoping.
> 
> p.s. sorry there's no porn, the boys wanted to chat. ;} next chapter though. promise. just needed an update so you didn't think i'd abandoned it.

CHAPTER (eahta) EIGHT

It felt as though his head had just hit the pillow before William was shaking John awake the next morning. And he came to with an abject groan.

He ached everywhere.

Riding three days nearly non-stop on very little food made his bones feel brittle. His stomach hollow. And his head throb in a way that made even the torch that William lit upon the wall be too bright for his eyes.

He threw his arm over his face to keep it out.

Understanding his plight, William gave him a few moments while he gathered up John's riding cloak from where it lay and beat the dried mud from it with his hands. It was the only parcel of clothing that John had managed to free himself of before falling into bed.

"Sorry for disturbing your much-needed slumber," William said softly, taking hold of one of John's still-booted feet and shaking it lightly, "but the High Steward has requested your presence in his chambers. He'll not be kept waiting."

John lifted his arm from his eyes. "His chambers? For what?"

William just shrugged. "I'm merely the messenger."

Groaning, John slid his legs out of bed and sat up. His face immediately going into his hands as his stomach gave an uneasy squeeze. He did not rouse again until William swung a goblet of wine under his nose and pressed a half loaf of bread and some sliced meats into his hands.

John ate and drank by barely lifting his head, but felt marginally better once he was finished. Good enough to follow William out the door at least.

John hadn't really thought of what a King's solar might look like (as he'd only had Sherlock's for comparison) but even then, John had spent very little time actually contemplating the room within which Sherlock was kept. 

For what did a cave compare to the jewel it held inside?

So when he entered the High Steward's private chamber, he was completely unprepared for the sheer size and opulance of the place.

The King's solar was massive. A single room built wider and taller than the whole of John's old cruck house. Rich dark wood paneled three of the four lower walls while enormous tapestries ruled the higher territories.

The wall to John's right as he entered was the only one that was different from the rest. It was soaked in foreign wood from floor to ceiling and boasted a large beautifully carved four-poster bed with its black velvet drapes tied back.

Beside the bed on the floor was a tapestry that had been taken down. Its absence from the wall left a large naked space above the bed.

It was of two men. Both of them handsome and regal. One man, the one with the strongly curved nose and plucked-back hair, stood slightly in the foreground with one hand on his hip and his gaze settled out as if looking over the room. His other arm was propped gently upon his companion's shoulder, the man with a softer countenance and a head full of iron gray hair. This second man was leaning back on a table to support them both and only had eyes for his partner.

This must be King Mycroft and Lord Gregory, John thought, as he passed them by. The true men who ruled here.

Unsure how far in to come, since William had left him at the door with a bow, John proceeded slowly. Needing a bit of time to take it all in.

Three massive but delicately spindled chandeliers drooped heavily from the vaulted ceiling. Their many candled arms throwing out golden throbs of light that while luminous in their own right were nothing compared to the gargarntuesque fireplace that roared with an inferno to John's left.

The mouth of it alone was the size of a carriage and carved to look as that precisely: a mouth. One that belonged to a giant.

Billowing cheeks, a large round nose, and rolling eyes bulged grotesquely above the conflagration. Wild hair splaying away from the heat in enormous whorls.

It was a masterpiece of carved white stone. Horrible and terrific to behold.

"That is 'Hellmouth'." The High Steward's voice came from the far end of the room, causing John to jump. 

The man had been hidden from view by a large canvas that was settled upon a massive easel. His head was cocked at an odd angle, his eyes focused unmoving and he stroked at the center of his breast in a way that was nearly obsessive.

"There are rumours that it can consume a whole tree in a matter of minutes," the High Steward continued on unprompted. "And that it is able to burn through an entire acre in one night to keep these chambers warm in the dead of winter." 

With this, his cold eyes turned and locked on John for only a moment. "Certainly large enough to make anything I deem insignificant disappear." Turning back to what he saw, satisfied that his warning had been received, he resumed stroking his breast. "Come here."

John came.

The second portrait was of the High Steward seated in a throne. Depicted twice the size as his actual self, he was practically swimming in a sea of fur-lined robes and shining silk, ones so finely painted that the observer could possibly reach out and touch their fine hairs. 

Whomever the artist had been, they had clearly taken the time and put to use their considerable skill in making a man who was wholly menacing in person look downright sinister in oil. Everything about him had been perfectly recreated, from the cold slice of his eyes down to the exaggerated bulge of his codpiece.

A look of absolute ownership reigned in his painted eyes as they seemed to stare back into John's literal soul.

But it was none of this that had caught John's eye.

It was the unfinished portion that had trapped his attention. And, with a subtle glance to the High Steward, apparently also the cause of the obsessive stroking of his breastbone.

There was a half done figure at the High Steward's shoulder in the portrait. Standing tall and thin like an apparition that was only given form through roughly sketched lines and abstract shapes. But it was the pair of eyes that this wraith had, not yet fully realized but instantly recognizable, that had stayed John's gaze. 

They were Sherlock's. 

And they were entirely wrong. 

They had been sketched looking down upon the High Steward in a way that John had never seen them look in any of the brief moments he had seen these two men together. 

They looked enamored. Loving. Willing. A devotee.

And it felt so utterly wrong to see him depicted in this way that it twisted something deep inside John's stomach.

This was clearly intended to be the replacement for the portrait on the floor. Once it was finished. These two men were to be together. Promised in history.

Aware that the silence had gone on for too long, John struggled for something to say."If you have summoned me here to have an opinion on art, my Lord, I fear that I have none."

The fingers idly stroking the High Steward's chest stopped in mid-motion, his gaze finally flicking to John in distaste. "Of course not you moron. There is only one opinion that I seek from you." 

He walked away, back to where the bed stood and took up a flask of liquid that was similar to the one the physician's apprentice had brought to Sherlock's chamber three days ago. The one he had had to piss in. 

"This is from this morning. Fresh enough to still be warm." The High Steward remarked, holding it up by its neck to scrutinize before the firelight. The rings on his fingers tinkled against the glass as he turned it. 

He studied its contents as though it told Sherlock's deepest secrets. Swirling it like wine. "If you were to drink this, do you know what it would taste like?"

"No, my Lord."

Obligingly, the High Steward tipped the neck of it to his lips and took a sip, letting it linger on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. "Melancholy." He confessed. "An excess in black bile."

John did not know what to say. The four humors were what physicians pondered. Not he.

"You have no idea how close you came to being arrested yesterday, do you Captain?"

John stiffened. Panic licking up his spine. Surely the High Steward couldn't know that he'd been trying to get into Baskerville Forest. Had he been watching him? 

In all fairness, John had never even entered the Forest at all to retrieve his item. So he had committed no crime.

"You were summoned here by the King's order to act as companion to Prince Sherlock," the High Steward continued, "and yet it took you only one day to fail at your job. I wonder, is it your idiocy that makes you incapable of fulfilling a simple decree? Or are you merely eager to prove how unfit you are to be a Captain in the first place?"

"No, my--"

"Be quiet." The High Steward interrupted. "You were required to stay in the Prince's company and yet you decided to abandon him for the sake of some fool's errand which caused the Prince to fall into a depression. Which, luckily for you, does not look too deep to come back from. 

"But let me be perfectly clear when I say that this will not happen again. I am giving you one more chance, Captain, because I am benevolent and my future Lord would wish me to be so. But should you fail a second time there will be no third chances.

"Any errands Prince Sherlock wishes to be done will be done by the servants as they are supposed to be. Any more items he requires will be fetched for him under my explicit direction. I will not lose that which I hold dear to any further incompetency.

"And take this last to heart: you are a tool, Captain. Nothing else. And I am allowing you to stay on only to keep the Prince in good spirits until our marriage is consummated. Apart from that you are nothing. Least of all his friend. Is this understood?" The High Steward had come closer, towering over John.

John clenched his fist and jaw and tried not to squirm too openly beneath the sting of his words. For everything he spoke of was a lash of truth. He was a fool to think he could ever interfere with royal lineage.

"Well?" The High Steward asked after the silence grew.

"Yes my Lord." John answered in a small voice.

And, pleased at having rebroken him, the High Steward backed off and led him out of the King's solar and up the winding stairs without another word.

//

The heavy door shut behind them as the High Steward left, both of them listening to the terrible scream of the bolt as it slid into place. 

John was too preoccupied with looking at his feet to see the way Sherlock's eyes scribbled over him. But he could feel their presence all the same.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked finally.

"It's nothing your Highness." John addressed to his feet, shame burning through him.

Sherlock scoffed and moved past him towards the window. "And yet you're addressing me formally once more, though we agreed that such pleasantries were unnecessary. Something has changed..."

It was easier now to lift his head with Sherlock turned toward the window and to take in the striking silhouette he made against the glass diamonds. He was a dark silhouette slicked down in all black silk.

The robes made him look taller, more slender. More like a wisp of smoke than a man.

He turned suddenly and John's eyes became trapped in his.

"The High Steward." Prince Sherlock announced, knowing somehow without having been there, as though he'd worked it out through witchcraft. "He has spilled poison into your ear. Tell me, what did he say?"

John licked his lips, unable to lie in face of his Prince. "H-he told me that I am not to leave your side again and that I will no longer be allowed to perform errands for you. My assignment keeps me here. In your company at all times."

"What else?" Sherlock pressed. The weight of his gaze seeming to press the truth right from John's tongue.

"He said that I am not to consider myself your friend. That I am to see to it that you remain in good spirits until your marriage to him. That that is my only purpose." It rent something deep in John's chest to hear his own mouth say these things aloud. 

Sherlock sneered. A motion that for one brief second looked unsettling on a face dabbed so beautifully in all white and lined in rouge and kohl. He turned back to the window. Contemplating the clouds.

"And did the High Steward also deign to tell you the terms of this 'marriage'?" Sherlock asked with a bit of a bite to his words. As though they tasted sour.

"No, your Highness."

Sherlock took a deep breath, reaching out through a broken out piece of glass to pluck a soft white feather from the sill. He twirled the delicate thing back and forth in his long fingers as he recounted the tale. 

"Four years ago my brother thought it necessary to leave Castle Appledore and set up a defense against Moriarty and his 'Crusade of the Burning Heart'. A campaign that managed to reach much farther North than any of us had anticipated. You'll no doubt have heard of it."

John nodded, though Sherlock did not see.

"With little choice but to go into battle, he left the castle to me. But I made a grievous error in judgement that day, John. In a fit of insolence I refused my brother and what I thought - at the time - to be my most triumphant moment instead turned into my darkest hour.

"When Charles Magnussen was selected to take the throne in my brother's stead, he vowed that he would only do so if Mycroft agreed to give him my hand in return. Do you see now, John? I am betrothed to him whether I wish it or not. And the only thing that can break the decree is for Mycroft to die in battle or for myself to give in to the High Steward's wishes and accept him."

Sherlock turned to face John again, his face stricken with grief.

"So now you know the truth of it, John. I have been promised to Charles like a trinket. Locked away up here for my own safe keeping. I am not my own man anymore. I am a prisoner in my own castle and I regret to inform you that you have been made my cellmate."

All this information stunned John, but there was only one feature of importance that stood out to him. "So...i-in fact," John stuttered, scarcely able to believe it. "You do not wish to marry him?"

"Wish to marry him? That villain?" Sherlock's face screwed up in bewilderment. "Why would I--" but then his face grew soft. Slack. Surprised. The wrinkles disappeared from between his eyebrows as his mouth fell open. "You felt it too, didn't you? I didn't mistake it." He took two steps towards John and crowded into his space, searching John's eyes. "That very first day."

"Felt what?" John whispered. Though he knew, of course. But it was too tenuous a hope to give name. What if he was somehow wrong? He would not survive it.

There was but an inch of space between them for either man to lean into, but it was a testament to both their fears that neither of them did.

Sherlock tucked back his lips, knowing precisely too what it was that would not take form in words between them. And he had only needed John to confirm it. 

But now was too soon. There was more to be exposed between them. He needed to know John as mush as John needed to know him. And he promised himself that their desires would come to pass eventually, that they had to. 

Both of them deserved to know one brief moment of love before their lives fell to utter ruin.

Giving John a small smile, Sherlock stepped back. "I'm afraid that I was unable to properly thank you yesterday for what you did for me, John." He said. "And I feel that this is something I need to rectify." 

Tearing his eyes away, he headed toward the roaring fireplace. He took a long pair of iron tongs from the wall and pinched up three large stones that were glowing red with heat before dropping them into the half barrel bath his servants had left him from this morning. The mysterious gray water hissed and the herbs that floated at its surface rippled softly.

His sudden withdrawal had bewildered John. "I do not require--"

"Please, John." Sherlock beseeched him and in a gesture of promise, held out his hand. John's eyes went wide. "In order for me to do the things I want to do to you, you must first tell me your own story of how you came to be here. I wish to know you before. . ." he felt his cheeks warm, embarrassment flame through him. "Knowing you."

John's face took on that peculiarly becoming shade of red, but it did make not shy away. Instead, he reached out his hand and let Sherlock take it.

Pleased, Sherlock walked him the short distance to the half barrel. "Have you ever had a proper bath?" He obviously knew the answer before it came.

"No. At my birth, perhaps. But not since I can remember."

"Bothersome things, baths." Sherlock said airily, letting his fingertips linger on John's palm as he slid his hand away. "But there is something to be said for how it feels afterward. Undress, please."

Struck by such a strange command, John hesitated, but a little head tilt from Sherlock had him rethinking his inaction.

"Would it be better if I turned my back?"

"No, I--" John found himself saying, though he had not thought to do so. To have those eyes turn away now felt like this moment would disappear. "No," and then his hands were moving. He slid the wide belt from his waist and loosed the strings from the top of his boots. But here he paused, for he knew that the gauntlet he had run his body through for the past three days, his back would not be kind enough to let him bend.

Not saying a word, again knowing without having to see, Sherlock bent to task and with deft fingers slid John's boots from his feet. Peeled his hose from his legs, the cloak from his back, and the sky blue doublet from John's tired shoulders.

Both of their breathing picked up as Sherlock disrobed him. Their heartbeats hammering. It was such an intimate act carried out with such gentleness and it made John want to cry. He was nearly naked in a stranger's room and yet he felt more protected than he ever had in all the year's he'd been alive.

Standing only in his small braies, John's nipples tightened in a mix of arousal and worry. One hand tightening on his elbow while his other curled into a fist as his hip, his arm crossing over his torso as if to hide himself. 

Goose flesh bloomed across his exposed skin.

Sherlock took a step closer, as if to try and replace the warmth of what he had stripped. "Alright?" He whispered against John's naked shoulder. The heat of him, standing so close, but not quite touching, made John's breath catch. "Yes."

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" Sherlock asked.

"No." John whispered, and only his quick breath betrayed him. A whole new worry of physical beauty swept over John and nearly made him flee. How terrible was he to look upon?

Ever since his convalescence, John had never been able to get used to the wrongness of this new body he had and how strange it felt to inhabit it. How drastically it now differed from the body of his youth. Gone were the lean, tight muscles of hard-laboured limbs that had once been - by his own and others' estimation - beautiful to behold. Now, they had been replaced by a stretch of thin, scarred skin warped tightly over a nest of sharp bone.

If he were to confess, John had never actually had to courage to seek out a reflective surface to completely see all the damage that he had wrought upon himself. And right now he desperately wished that he had.

"I am." Sherlock told the truth for them both. "But it's alright." He looked down John's body, nearly as thin as his own. "Do you trust me?"

"Implicitly." John said, giving no pause.

"Good." Sherlock smiled and then he noticed something. Something that brought a smile to his lips and a warm sensation to the pith beneath his stomach. "You've no need to stuff your codpiece, do you?"

The tease startled a chuckle out of John and a delicate new mood settled over them. "No."

"No." Sherlock agreed, shaking his head. He caught John's eye before his long fingers settled gently on John's waist, fingers teasing at the top of his braies. Perhaps as a means to distract him, Sherlock bent forward and pressed his rouged lips to John's. The lightest, most hesitant of kisses connected them as he slid the small sheath of fabric down John's thighs and let them fall to his ankles.

John's breath caught on a small pant. The soft, dry touch of lips all that Sherlock gave him. But it meant so much, like a seal.

Leaning back, never betraying John's trust by looking, Sherlock took up John's hand once again and helped lower him into the tub. Letting John hiss and pause the lower he got as his broken body protested more and more. 

Finally settled, curled up around his legs, John looked up at him expectantly.

"You've no idea what you look like. Do you?" Sherlock asked, still feeling his heart pounding in his chest from their chaste kiss.

"No."

Trusting his small smile, John looked down at his reflection in the milky water between his knees and took in what all the others had seen. He looked exhausted. Sunken. Bearded and bedraggled. And on top of it all, mud encrusted.

"I look terrible." He said.

"You look tired." Sherlock corrected and got down upon his knees in all his fine clothes next to a pitcher and small scrap of cloth that had been purposefully left upon the floor. "As if you have been for a very long time, perhaps since you were born."

"I am." Closing his eyes, John tried hard not to think about how strange it was to have the Prince of Castle Appledore pouring warm, sweet-smelling water over his shoulders. How, as he'd done with his clothes, Sherlock treated him so gently as he worked the cloth up around his throat. Combed his long fingers through the tangle of his beard and now began to work one finger at the fine creases in his face.

He opened his eyes when Sherlock wiped the cloth across his forehead and Sherlock paused. Excess water beading down John's temple. "Have I died? Is this a dream?" He asked breathily. The heated water was doing something funny to him, plumming the exhaustion from every one of his bones and making it rise to the surface of him. He felt simultaneously heavy and light.

Sherlock stared a moment, unsure how to answer, before kissing him again. Slower and longer this time. He made sure to move his plush lips in a comforting way against John's. Making sure that it did not promise anything more. He had half a mind to tuck the poor man into his bed once he pulled him from the bath.

"Perhaps you are being resurrected."

It was John's turn to stare back now. Like he still couldn't manage to believe this. His eyes nearly filling with tears.

"What have I ever done," John said, placid in a way he had not felt for years, "my whole life, to deserve you?" He could not hope to describe the feeling his chest. Give name to the happiness that flowed through his veins.

"Everything." Sherlock said gently, speaking on all the pain, all the heartbreak, all the ruin that he didn't even know was ample in John's life up until this point. "Everything you've ever done, is what you did."

Feeling the tears finally come to his eyes, John's voice caught. "Then it is a journey I would make again, gladly. Only for you."

Sherlock's mouth quivered. "Will you tell me?"

Wiping the tears from his eyes with a wet hand, John nodded solemnly and began.

//


End file.
